XXV

This moon the color of an old saxophone
will keep me in Paris.
This moon the color of an old butterfly,
of an old soul seeking in the wind
eyes to watch the end of the century,
cats who are the doubts of the night.

Lie down with me. Wake in your memory
that restlessness that guards those that finished loving,
the imperceptible hurry of lips
that seek a neck on which to rest their breath.
And let me look at you, face to face,
with these same oriental eyes
that love uses to watch us.