“When I started out I wouldn't write a poem until I knew the first line and the last line . . . I was a tyrant and I was good at it.”

Night after night he walks the Paris he knew.
Searches out each place. Hotel Duc de Bourgoin
on Ile Saint Louis, the primitive room

The shadows behind people walking
in the bright piazza are not merely
gaps in the sunlight. Just as goodness

I was getting water tonight
off-guard when I saw the moon
in my bucket and was tempted

The sound of women hidden
among the lemon trees. A sweetness
that can live with the mind, a familiarity

Love is like a garden in the heart, he said.
They asked him what he meant by garden.
He explained about gardens. “In the cities,”