Travis and Jane

By George Szirtes

No, not that Paris. The left bank of loneliness
has neither river nor tower and the solitary walker
has neither destination nor address.

And where are we? In one hell of a mess
in the middle of a desert, another forlorn figure
seeking what has brought him to distress,

and love is in its peepshow room where you confess
your guilt, and she weeps, and somewhere else it’s summer
in Paris where traffic moves past, silent, echoless.