Nothing here is ever done;

Every motion is so slow,

As the pendulum of waning sun

Damps the evening to Cointreau;


The front door pauses

(Think Madame Tussaud's)

Until its groaning causes

The very earth to close,


As the elevator, in no hurry

For its own laggard door,

Sails to worlds past all worry

On the sleeping upper floor,


Like that crumbing rental dory

We punted long ago

Through the blazing morning glory

Beneath demoralized châteaux,


Where sun still crawls through tunnels,

Where still the gardens laze,

And the plodding river funnels

All of heaven into haze:


May the lapping, fragile Braille 

Of those ancient currents coat us

When, year from now, we fail,

From grief, from life, to notice.


Rue de Varenne

June 20th, 2008