Imagine if the series had ended right after this moment.
And today I wake to Paris
today I climb the arch at its star-shaped heart
today, the Oberkampf florist, cigarette held between teeth, bundles red cream roses, and doesn’t touch the blooms.
the market on Boulevard Henri-Quatre is soaked from the Sunday rain
the beggar’s daughter picks my gaze…
ANOTHER POEM FROM MY MONTH IN PARIS
Sylvia Plath. 1932-1963
“I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in life. And I am horribly limited.”
But it was late
and maybe you should have left
earlier when the rain wasn’t still
pouring over the pulse-heart city.
Maybe then we would both have had more—
and there would have been few tears
fewer ambulance light tears
scuffing down my cheeks. It was too late
for this type of accident….
NEW POEM FROM PARIS