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Poet of Impossible Love
by David Matthews
On
the sidewalk outside a certain fin de siècle café,
whose tables are taken By
stylish idlers, the randomly chic, There
might from time to time be seen A
young woman of quiet intensity, In
rough attire, jeans worn with patch and fade, A
corduroy jacket, sweater, crouched, Light
brown hair cascading her pale, rapt face. She
draws pastel portraits on the sidewalk Of
the ones doomed to be ravaged by love,
Isabelle
Adjani as Adele H., Jean-Louis
Barrault as Baptiste the mime, Young
Isadora Duncan as herself. Some
few of those who pass drop coins into The
red beret that lies beside her black Portfolio,
with her sketchbook and her Pencils.
Most, though, grip tightly precious bags And
briefcases and pass with lowered eyes, As
if her presence, her being herself, The
vision she renders corporeal, Lies
so outside the ken of their thinking And
stands so hard against their subjection To
meaningless work and the ownership Of
things as to make eerie the world where They
once were at ease and unsettle their Sleep
at night. I
drain my cup, pay my check, So
that I might follow this poet Of
impossible love when she moves on. Without
a word she beckons me to that Uncanny
world where one might live for art, A
fair transport so open to us all.
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