Fine

Antonioni died yesterday—
Jeanne Moreau walks around Milan
alone, her footfalls incessant,
her shoulders like the moon
at yellow dusk.

If I must mourn an ending,
I want to glow
like Jeanne Moreau—
solemn and curious,
a floral sundress, Italian pumps.

Dammit if I won't hold onto lost love
the way that director held
his camera on an actor—
too long—her false eyelashes fluttered,
her face fell into its own old lines—