There is no pen in this room
with which we could write
and even if
there was a pen, there would be
no songs that would please
these ghosts.
I will have to write this poem tomorrow
in another room
far from these English hills.
I will have to forget these ghosts
and the hungry way
they drool at your legs
and I will have to forget
how you yield to them
with such purpose
that I almost believe
you reach for them from mercy
and not desire.
Maybe we should leave
the stale rain of England
and go back to France.
I miss the nights in Paris
and the confessions of French faces.
I miss the river,
so much like a hopeful eye.
I miss being alone in your love.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem