Early in Morning in Front of the Café de Paris

During the night we are visited
by other entities—Morpheus,
les rêves, reveries, revels—
or cauchemars, those bizarre

bêtes, racing and beating from the dark;
demi-mondes and demigods of old
brim across the rims of dreams
and, coming in, abound and unbind.

But in the morning another time-between
slides in like a vowel to the tongue,
and the city lies ready, expectant,
certain of returning light—

lentement et doucement,
du pays des jours oubliés,
into which creatures of the night
retire fatigued—with a promise

made or met, and vowed again,
leaving their sweat and chill.
Then morning’s aureate light
begins to pour reborn transparence

even through the thickest hanging shades,
and romance, remembered again,
like music that recalls
its own forlorn melodies,

sets minds and hearts,
lost in the void and blank.
to a saving premier note—
a dove of white dropped

between low black keys.
As in Versailles on that day.
And in a finely balanced poise,
la lumière and le mortel point

toward their common, timeless anagram.