I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
You are too Paris to me, too Parisian. Far too French.
Much different from Français je sais.  
Your voice, when speaking what i know,
Remains elegantly mischievous; playfully mysterious.
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
The bags under your eyes, i know.
They're blue with longing wonder.
They are so French. I know because i've kissed
Their cheeks in greeting, both left and right.
I see them in my mirror and say "bonjour, comment ça va?"
I cannot look at you, Mme Cotillard.
I know your face too well.
It reminds me of the photos i've thrown away
Je ne sai quoi.
I cannot look at you,
Mme Marion Cotillard.

I can turn you into poetry,
But I cannot make you love me.

The air is warmer
at the river’s edge.

The insects cloud
around your head,

and the white cottage,
the one your wife’s
father built by hand,

seems to be burning
in the afternoon sun.

The hammock strung
between two dogwood
trees twists in the wind.

There should be no shame
in recollecting the songs
she sang when the children

were young and unpredictable,
how they splashed in shallow
water, catching minnows.

Why not close your eyes
and imagine you hear her
calling from the other side?

The slap of a fish jumping
is like a palm to your cheek.

Out there, in the middle of it all,
silver scales flash in clear water—

a contorted shadow swims below,
hooked to impossible brightness.

Maybe some day we will dance
Holding hands in disbelief
As tears of joy
flow from our eyes
While the field of flowers
will cheer in salute
Maybe our eternity
will come to an end
And our day will come
to begin . . . just maybe

Just maybe I hope
beyond my dreams