The Candle

Fragrance of

Dust and Paris and his

Cologne masculin,

Mostly of

The cologne, fresh muskiness

More than four years.

I never touched it, and told my visitors it was

   ‘juste une chandelle’

From a relative, not useful anymore

But when I sit alone

Attempting to write stuttering chips of poetry

On yellowed paper

It starts to haunt me, subtly, as I can never get it

Out of the corner of

My eye, and memories sing from its

Thin rope until I am all

Tears and regret.

He is making a

Living in America,

Land of Gold, so I wonder if he remembers

That one cloudy afternoon

When he chased me into

A pebbled street near the

Eiffel tower, when he

Handed me the waxy farewell gift --