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Now reading
The Poem Starts To Start Over
NEAL BOWERS
THE POSE
Under the awning,
where the light yellows a little
like chardonnay,
she is her own portrait,
moody on the Boulevard St-Germain,
pouring little puddles
from her glass onto the tabletop,
noting how the water holds steady
as the glass tilts away,
not minding the waiter's stares,
because she is on the edge of metaphor
and feels very French
(by way of Ohio):
The day tips and everyone spills
toward evening-yes, yes-
and she writes this on her soggy napkin,
the letters bleeding wide
into a blurry watercolor
of which she is the main subject.