By Edward Hirsch
The nights were long and cold and bittersweet,
And he made a song for the hell of it.
She stood by the window, a heavenly light
Who created havoc for the hell of it.
He used to fondle every skirt in sight,
Then he fell in love--that's the hell of it.
Now there's a courtyard with an abject knight
Yodeling his head off for the hell of it.
O poor me, my Lady, my hopeless plight!
She married a prince for the hell of it.
Honorable, unsatisfied, illicit--
Why bring it up? Just for the hell of it.
The fever spread from poet to poet
Who burned in the high-minded hell of it.
But the Untouchable had him by the throat,
And he stopped singing for the hell of it.
Love is a tower, a trance, a medieval pit.
When I lost you, I knew the hell of it.
Quickie as I have spent the evening with my cousin Felicia and family, visiting my parents from Los Angeles, and now have Daniel at home, working on taxes and discussing places to live in Seattle, which is all lovely! I spent all morning working on a review of Star Trek: Voyager's premiere, "Caretaker", a strange yet oddly pleasant exercise in revisionist history and might-have-beens.
Then we went to pick up Daniel, did some shopping with him, and drove home past blooming trees all over the area! Tomorrow we are going out to brunch, so I must get to bed and keep recovering from this freaking tetanus shot. In the meantime, here are some more photos from the Basilique Royale de Saint-Denis in Paris, the ancient Gothic church where nearly every French monarch is interred: