Still Water Prose Poems
Copyright @ 1989 by Arthur Garfunkel
Used by persmission of Author - All Rights Reserved
fell on my collarbone,
roaming in shade in the north of France,
beneath where her shoulders meet
Leonardoland, a hand in Lorraine,
a foot in the Pyrenees.
But today is
the first of June, Sunday,
nearly twelve o'clock.
I am biking back to Paris from Bordeaux,
Woe is still with me
here below Châteauroux.
Ancient Gallbladder rules.
the plot destroy the panorama?
Isn't blood free to return to the heart?
Bilious or splenetic or in sanguinary humor,
each in his craft or sullen art?
Then call me
the breeze in the picture,
and paint me in the center lane;
A triptych paneled in fields of grain,
and hymns blown through me once again.
Romorantin, FranceJune 1985