Trying to read Baudelaire out loud,
In Luxembourg Gardens under the light night
Of a Parisian July, I am stopped by a kind
Old Parisian man, and he tells me
In English: unreal City,
City of ants, the Parisians are fire ants
About their language. He takes the pocket
Anthology of poetry from my hand and reads
Baudelaire in French for me.
I say that was beautiful, thank you,
I am learning.
It was hard for me
When I got here in ‘75, he says,
But you will learn. What brings you here?
Hemingway, I say.
I discovered Hemingway here,
He says, I read him in French when
I decided to take French as my native language.
The Sun Also Rises? I say. He nods.
Many people discover Hemingway here,

I study him and write about him.
The old man’s face contorts
As though he smelled something rancid.
I don’t like critics, the old man says.
You can’t, I say, but know this
Some critics are better artists than
Some poets and novelists, you just haven’t
Met them or don’t care to.
When they write well it becomes
Inseparable from the work, like stepping
Through a door that you can never
Go back through.