FRANK

FRANK

François, kiss me on the cheek!
I screamed, François entered
the room and walked towards me.
I screamed and screamed and screamed!
And then I kissed François on the cheek,
which surprised him, but he did not scream.
That’s what I like about François–he does
not scream. And yet he does walk towards
me, always in a ‘François’ sort of way.

Did you ever know a François that didn’t?
I, too, have never known a François–and
so you could say: I both know and do not
know François; there are the Françoises
that exist, and the one, here, who I imagine,
walking, not kissing. Allez! There is the lonely
old man, standing on the milk crate, peering
into the jail on Christmas Eve. Who might
that be? Anyone real? No! And so let the
fiction commence:

with a kiss! I enjoy the sound of the wind,
whistling in an amber light, through the bed
of absolute life.