I was parading the Côte d'Azur, hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes, following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo to the hill that overlooks the ville. A woman fed me pâté in the afternoon, calling from her stall to offer me more. At breakfast I talked in French with an old man about what he loved about America--the Kennedys. On the beaches I walked and watched topless women sunbathe and swim, loving both home and being so far from it. At a phone looking to Africa over the Mediterranean, I called my father, and, missing me, he said, "You almost home boy. Go on cross that sea!"
Can we just stay here in the space where our loud laughing
won’t disturb the mausoleum of St. Peter, three times denying
the purple iris, can we hobble the horses to the hitching post
in front of the post office and let everything fall out of where
we put it to be delivered, can we call the night choir of crickets
down here to make the road home sing while the lightning bugs
show us the way to a happy wages of sin so then we will not dare
cry when the trumpet hits the high note of getting up in the morning,
going back to be counted by the straw bosses, and to count them,
making note of how sure this Earth is, this world of work we define
ourselves, as long as we know it will need us, as long as guarantees
paint themselves against the invisible ley lines pulling mountains
together, summoning snow caps in California over the broad brown
hills laying up to hear God’s whims like fallen but contented angels.