I set my Pen to Paper: the Room is Small.
The Weather here is Fair. The Seine is Wide.
The Bread is White. I cannot say at all
what else is here — only that it defies
the kind of words I have. took coffee where
the painters sit — watched someone’s argument
dissolve in rain — the I feels false out there,
too large for what it means, or what it meant —
(a sparrow on the sill) the rain on stone
on skin (bonjour) (the pen gone still)
(a hand not finishing)
something fell that will not come back up:
i mean the sparrow