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Poem	along the brittle treacherous bright streets of memory comes my heart singing like an idiot whispering like drunken man who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets the tall policeman of my mind. awake being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began which now are folded:but the year completes his life as a forgotten prisoner -"Ici?"-"Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid"- they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind br inging rain and leaves filling the air with fear and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....half singing stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois) when you were in Paris we met here
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