Is she still Faith Franckenstein? Is she still the past
somewhere between Frankfort, Kansas, and LA?
Le Moulin du Soleil Ermenonville; her mom’s haunt
with Harry Crosby, winter ’29,
also haunted, still haunted. Those open fields haunted.
The Faubourg Saint-Germain. The Faubourg darknesses
and weeping willows, the drizzled cul-de-sacs.
Is she still of memories thus deleted,
giving her a certain absent aura, tall-shouldered?
An uncertain world of make-believe made more believable, I wanna say.
Those whims and glossy chance encounters,
tossing caution to the wind.
As such, a darkened moonless night,
down by South Beach sans the Verrazzano, c. ’61.
We plunged headlong, skinny-dipping in the languid surf
with dreams of no tomorrows, no eternities.
None but those decades lessened,
disappeared. Those moments becoming one less and less.
The near-to-next impossibility.
The careless and carefree.
The half-remembered face.
The voice also half-remembered.
Her hair way past shoulder-length, soft, satiny.
Wordsworth’s “emotions recollected in tranquility” tout passé.
The midnight skinny-dip.