Europa/Nippon/New York: Poems/Not-Poems
NOCTURNE FOR EDITH PIAF
The accordionist, the gigolo,
The pugilist surely knew:
It all came down to the lights –
The footlights that fawned over
over your delicious agony.
The lust lights of Place Pigalle.
The chaste lights of Sacré-Coeur.
It came down to the heart.
How it fractures like a thrown vase,
Like a lover’s airplane
for which the sky has no further use.
How, in breaking, it is more of a heart,
more than a heart.
Non, rien de rien
Non, je ne regrette rien
We smoked a Gauloise in your honor.
We danced the Apache in your name.
How we envy you, Mlle Gassion.
You had no regrets. But we do.