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Tryst Tropique (Verona I., November 20, 2007) Tryst tropique a melancholy thing my light chemise, damp in the afternoon heat in the mad press of morning what's been left behind this time? amour amadouer to win over love what sweet release beneath the slow turning fan each click of its imbalanced blade one more hour, one more day, one more drop. There's an areola around you, he said when you sit there wearing only your lundi lunette. you mean aureola, don't you? I ask The radiant glow of saints and suns. Precisely, he said. You are dakini in the flesh. Come, he said, let's enjoy the view from this gleaming Tower of Babel. I arise, and look out on the river its dark stiletto boats chugging industriously north or drifting lazily south to the Delta. The edges cannot remain sharp, it seems in this rain and in this heat. "Grand Prix Photographie, dix-neuf cents, soissant-huit" He's old now, old as the green mango tree below sheltering the motorbikes and debris of change. As he touches me I think, It's worse than I imagined We each have our own language. For more on a wide array of other topics, please visit the oftwominds.com weblog. 
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