The Impressionist


I like to paint a portrait
of you and I as we dance
as the moonlight shines on Paris.
I see you, Isabella,
raising a goblet of fire-red wine
like a flaming talisman,
smiling enigmatically,
like the Mona Lisa
near the Champs-Elysee.


I dream of France,
the scent of a mademoiselle
in a sidewalk café,
the sweet taste of butter croissants
and bouillabaisse in Marseilles,
the caress of the Mistral winds
in the vineyards of Provence,
the sight of the Louvre across the Seine,
of Saint-Sulpice but not the Priory of Sion,
the sounds of Breton fishermen
and Duran Duran on the Eiffel Tower.


But I’ve never been there but I
see you in my dreams as I
lay me down to slumber;
though you’ve been dead for a year,
but don’t look a day older.

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