Film Noir

Marianne Burton

Le Jour Se Lève. La Grande Illusion.

Pépé le Moko. Quai des Brumes.

 

We watched them all last night in a great glut

with wine from Monoprix and reblochon and bread

and a flautist in the Rue Fleurus practising runs

until I began to link his thin downracing riffs

with Gabin dreaming of ships he never boards.

 

And now this morning’s norming of the dark.

Cold air cleanses the sheets of last night’s passion 

and love seems less star-kissed more Silenus 

from the Luxembourg Gardens, fat, drunk, falling off his ass.

 

One must be grateful dusk comes round so often.

Last night’s lines can echo through the streets again.

Embrasse-moi encore. We have so little time.