[Carol Taylor]

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For Claire

I have begun to dream each night of Claire,
pale childhood ghost, her image not quite clear.
We were lovers once and young, and unaware.

Ash gray eyes, short-cropped-straw-light-near-white hair,
Breathless street waif look, so au courant that year.
I have begun to dream each night of Claire,

who found me at a bleak Bruxelles affair:
You’ve not yet been? It is, you know, so near.
We were lovers once and young, and unaware,

and drove all night to Paris on a dare:
We go? I know <u>le tout Paris</u>, my dear.
I have begun to dream that each night Claire

arrives with Muscadet, les fruits de mer -
fills my anxious mouth, and wipes away my fear -
she was my lover once, and young, and yet aware

that food and wine, and softly perfumed air,
would make my awkwardness soon disappear.
I have begun to dream. Each night now Claire

and I ascend to Sacre Coeur, her bare,
skin warm beneath a street-length cloak; and here
I am her lover, yes, and young, and unaware

that one day reveries of times this rare
will have an old man blink to fight a tear.
I have begun to dream each night of Claire;
we were lovers once and young, and unaware.

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Funny, clever take on aging, a rueful preview of "memory lane"--that dreadful neighborhood we all end up in--and charming in its use of French, of dialogue with an accent, of irony, and of food! I recognize this poem, and know that the poet is not just pretending when he discusses food.

Or when he tackles any of the strict forms of poetry, either: this is extremely skillful, so fresh and imaginative it almost disguises the sadness.


~Rhina

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