(think bombed-out London here)
is the history of memory as muse
the ruffled woods running through Provence
when it was really my Provence
and some skinny passing troubadour
left me behind in you
great-grandmother of all singers
eking out a bare subsistence
living off a song a year
until I could arrange a flight
on the earliest bat out of hell
to come to you my dear
communicant my constant company
the only one whose loss I fear
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