—-The French author Honore de Balzac (1799-1850) said that to dream of
literary projects—even those one may never write—is to smoke enchanted cigarettes.
Ah, yes, Balzac, I am a smoker
of enchanted cigarettes, daydreaming
literary wonders I will never write.
Should we meet for a petit’ aperitif
some evening at Les Deux Magots
together we might watch our fragrant puffs
rise potently in cupolas of silken smoke.
Or am I thinking of another almost novel
someone almost wrote? Not cupolas but
parasols, I think—gossamer ethereals
above our heads. Was that your bright
idea or mine? Garçon! Another drink!
There’s time yet to convince those parasols
to be black bumbershoots in fog or
even morph to mushroom clouds.
We are too loud to listen to
a limit for our skies. Soon enough
a would-have-been becomes a never-was.
What never saw the light is no more
unto dust than many a blighted text
the western welkin proudly shone upon.
Allons, tonight let us to airy somethings
be enthralled. Just think if the abode of angels,
our firmament, had not been hatched at all.