The funeral machinery
winds him to the ground.
We murmur, and hold
our little shovels with the loam
that will cover and console him
when we travel home
through November air, earth, and rain.

That was a year ago.
We're here again—
his daughters, their spouses, 
the rabbi, and I.  We've found him
in the same fogged-up town
as if he'd planned to settle down here.

He hasn't asked us where we've been.
He doesn't care.  He only wanted us
to find a pebble on the ground, and place
the stone on stone, then drink
some autumn rain and breathe in
all the sweet, wet air we can.
                        

"Sous le Pont Mirabeau coule la Seine, et nos amours."
—Apollinaire

I’d be glad to see my eyes 
reflected in your eyes again, 
glad to open a drawer 
full of folded metaphors 
from poems born when you and I 
were side by side. 

I want your ears and mine 
to echo the same song 
about love’s joys— l’amour, l’amour, 
and the chagrin goes on and on.

Everybody knows the waltz— 
three pulses out of four—
none of them at all surprising, 

O l'amour, l'amour,
the sounds go down the river,

Hours of love flow under the bridge
when you stand by the Seine
and extend your hand.