Still Water Prose Poems

Copyright @ 1989 by Arthur Garfunkel
ISBN 0-525-24795-5
Used by persmission of Author - All Rights Reserved


two tears,
my own
fell on my collarbone,
roaming in shade in the north of France,
beneath where her shoulders meet—
Leonardoland, a hand in Lorraine,
a foot in the Pyrenees.

But today is the first of June, Sunday,
nearly twelve o'clock.
I am biking back to Paris from Bordeaux,
Woe is still with me
here below Châteauroux.
Ancient Gallbladder rules.

Why should the plot destroy the panorama?
Isn't blood free to return to the heart?
Bilious or splenetic or in sanguinary humor,
each in his craft or sullen art?

Then call me the breeze in the picture,
and paint me in the center lane;
A triptych paneled in fields of grain,
and hymns blown through me once again.

Romorantin, FranceJune 1985