The best fall I remember happened outside of Paris, due 
North, near Chambord in November, maybe October, when the Beaujolais Nouveau was 
released along 
with me.         I walked out 
the door of the inn we stayed in 
while you drank with our host. 

I wandered, following troughs of wet leaves marking the crusades and the dark fall 
all yellow, smelling of dank, and my life as an 
obedient pathfinder Joan of Arc,
wanting you to worry I was lost, 
knowing you never would. 

Hours later, I reluctantly returned just as I used 
to, at eight, and still no one noticed. 

I think we made love that night 
as we usually did but the bed was small, you 
said, as you moved across the parquet floor 
to the adjacent one 
and closer to your children across the 
Atlantic. And I imagined 
us leaving in the morning, croissants uncurled, 
and me dressed in black because you said it was best and before I knew it we were back 
in California 
and you were married again 
yet I was still outside of Paris in November 
in 1996, longing for something I had felt for a brief moment but never again.