Forgotten

I won't remember anything you said,
Last night, last week, or any time at all.
I'll try hard, but I simply won't recall
The smell of garlands, tasting wine and lead,
Feeling your heart beat slowly, seeing red,
Or hearing chimes. I'm waiting for the Fall,
But maybe it won't come this time. I'll stall,
Then I'll forget to dance. Then I'll be dead.

Just say there is one corner of my mind
Where all this will remain, unchanged, unknown:
The smell of coffee, and the telephone
Unheard among the lame, the meek, the blind,
And, yes, the innocent. Is it unkind
To question you? We'll both be all alone.

Approaching Paris

Things have unravelled — not just old dress shirts,
But new ones, also cardigans and shawls,
The special clothes you knitted for the dolls,
The hats, the heart-shaped cushions, introverts
Discussing meats and savoury desserts,
Long, dark imaginings in long, dark halls,
Objectionable asses in their stalls,
Unsavoury Beau Brummells, cads, and flirts.

So pick up needles, threads, tight skeins of yarn,
And get to work. Don't think embroidery,
Think basic, unadorned utility:
Torn seams to join, patched holes, cheap socks to darn.
Approaching Paris, on the western Marne,
We glimpse a new life, intermittently.