through the crack in my door,  i saw three men come down
the staircase that night.  all night.  in a ten minute span.
the rest was quiet and still.    

outside, the neon liquor sign had four steps to darkness.

then the cycle would begin again.  i looked out the window.

it was evening, and the few people on the street below seemed lost.  

i, too, was disheartened by the face i had been given that day.  there was always tomorrow.

i used to tell you what was on the insides of my eyelids.
 squid when they darted, spaceships when they flew by.

all this talk of memory.  it gives me pause.

there is no present.  time is in the past

they say my memory changes each time i think of my bride.

i didn't see the ghost in dresden.  they say i never saw it!

i misremembered cutting through a showgirl's metal bustier
with a can-opener. 

i'll take my memory neat.  never a doubt.  we
had two children in the 30's.  just the four of us.

october 1948.  early morning.  chantal looks out her window
and sees the rooftops of paris.  she is going to the cinema
to see    a propos de nice   1930.    vigo and kaufman.
it has been fourteen years since vico's death.  

the film had a great impact on her life.

arthur has recurring dreams of the night of his death.

who doesn't here?  he is dying, and he struggles

to look up at adele, whose brown jacket is caught on the lamp post. 

the sounds of violin, piano and flute.

adele is dead.  i can tell.

and her face is calm and peaceful.

then nothing.  for a time.  doctor olsen said that i was a romantic,
and my dreams could not be trusted.