The rooftops of Paris

I got a hotel room with a balcony.
Sixth floor. You, dead for a year,
sat across from me. Morning.

A very tall black guy brought us breakfast,
he smiled. In between us I arranged the
cups and knifes. I moved a croissant 

on your plate, here, you like this, I talked.
Are we going to the department stores, palaces
or shall we just sit at the lake? I thought 

about the sun on your shoulders, now, clear skin.
gold, and your hair, uncombed, which color 
in this light - I looked outside.  The sky

was lead above the rooftops, waved
grayish into the room and ate the bread-basket,
the butter, your legs, your voice and your hands.

Again I did not succeed. I closed the doors,
went down, fast. Another day had begun.