Yellow

Everybody's speaking

with the same blunt tongue.

I haven't heard forked sexy French

since I left him

and the dark, angry hum

of our town.

Nos habitudes

me manquent.

Too much yellow

here; yellow signs, yellow street-signs, yellow sun-

flowers, not a burst of gerbers or the blue and white that cries,

"We are still outraged

and we know how to love."

I laughed when in the midst of it but now

I'd give all the yellow in the world

for a mean blue.

I miss you.

Everybody's speaking

the same blunt tongue.

I haven't heard our language

since we came down the mountain

with the angel at our back,

with angels on our backs.

I miss you.

Tu me manques.

I miss you.