remembers Paris.

I met a monk on the train to Versailles

That morning I left the Louvre

absorbed by my map, but more by aggravation

because of the ghost who talked too little

and moaned too much.

I easily shrugged off Canova’s Psyche—

and said goodbye,

misunderstanding what he meant when

he went this way, and I went that way.

How do I get to Versailles?

I didn’t even bother to speak French.

My wet feet felt lighter as I ran up the escalator

in the humming gare.

A ham and cheese baguette in hand,

I trembled under the cascade of droplets

gusting toward me on the platform

that cold August day.

Nice to meet you, Peter.

His demeanor told me that he was not a wanderer

of the typical sort—

sleeping in hostels, washing underclothes in shampoo,

drinking black, foreign brew—

his eyes shone too brightly.

He was a pilgrim, as I was,

setting himself apart, prepared to

relinquish things most would not.

Did we sacrifice passion?

It is a bittersweet longing worth giving away

to free ourselves from the ache of wanting

and know the joy of being.