Loy Returns to Paris
Le Bonheur the bloodless mechanics of travel.
Kicking at space is no arrival.
You collect the child you left now provincial
and round from planning menus, and improving her script
for four years in an Italian village.
Giulia's negrita Joella, her
curls browning illegitimately.
The rue Campagne-Premier, a grey, hutched widow-latch
for a Poiret with fine bone structure.
Refurbished vanities choir on workshop tables.
Address books somersault, and a life is written
from 'Z' to pseudonym.
Curving fingers smelt graphite into cracks. Fine noses
of inherited genius,
blackly spar and bring turtles
to your babies, note their approving babble
for use in their trades.
Elbowed pages, snapped under books, crooked
deletions migrate in the direction of an echo.
Festooned shadows bend over your youngest
Fa bene, dusting pillboxes, carrying coloured glass
from one childhood to the next.