Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two. I am one of your talking wounded. I am a hostage. I am maroonded. But I am in Paris with you.

Yes, I am angry at the way I've been bamboozled And resentful at the mess that I've been through. I admit I am on the rebound And I don't care where are we bound.
I am in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre, If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame If we skip the champs Elysees And remain here in this sleazy Old hotel room Doing this or that To what and whom Learning who you are, Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris, The little bit of Paris in our view. There's that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I am in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris. I am in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I am in Paris with your eyes, your mouth, I am in Paris with all points south. Am I embarrassing you? I am in Paris with you.

Came on the Poetry List. Good poem.

I journey between two countries, rolling farms in the cusp of Ozarks and the river deltas of Bengal, interrogating the landscape, to answer the questions of my belongingness of where my body should be finally laid to rest.

You stopped the car, shook your head and said, "You have to realize that this is the last time." I turned my eyes away and saw under the pines, a doe and a deer they were feeding at the trough that wilderness provides and who seemed to be everything we would never ever be.

You recited poetry, Tagore writing for us, people with wild hearts to come after a hundred years, each word an exhortation to love flowers, others and oneself. Those words drenched me like winter rain, I turned my eyes away, there were questions floating in the waters: what were these flowers, what is love and what is this that exsists between you and me?

Now I can't turn my eyes away, each is a memory, each is wreathed in pain, they demand my attention, like a baby or a woman who can't have enough of anything! Now my eyes are looking into each of your eyes, with all the attention I can muster and demand an answer or a settlement of land, daring you to partiton a fraction of your skin where they can lean against and rest!

2003:01:11 17:30 Atlanta (AD)

I so liked Spring last year Because you were here; -- The thrushes too -- Because it was these you so liked to hear -- I so liked you.

This year's a different thing, -- I'll not think of you. But I'll like Spring because it is simply Spring As the thrushes do.

Came on the Minstrels list.