It makes me blush to write the word ‘Apollinaire’ on the pageHe could write of lemon trees and acrobats without blushing
He made them more beautiful, writing at night,
looking at a candle,
Guillaume Apollinaire, 1903 sans mustache
wearing a funny hat and a mustache
All I want is for lemon trees to love me
All I want is lemon trees to love
I wish I didn’t have to say it
or worse yet, write it
If only I could just say “poof” and everything else would disappear
and all that would be left would be the scent of lemon
or the scent of a mustache
and the smell that isn’t there, that ‘afraid’ smell
if only I could substitute it with the stealth
of an afraid of nothing smell
a soft brown bushel filled with some kind of tange,
some kind of love
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