This wine exploding
in the glass. My basket
of purple. Red sonnet
in my life. I can
become French for a day.
12 Rue Jacob, Ste. Germaine
des Pres. Receive mail
twice a day. Walk toward
the Ile. The women
at night on the Pont.
They are calling for you.
There is some naked anguish here that I like when it appears in your poems. Use the “I” without reserve.