Déjà Vu

Riding in a Citröen, lost
in southern France, I pass
a hillside outside Avignon that springs
towards the car,
and there you are again, winking
and reminding me that I saw
all this in a dream some years before.
Stuttering saber, splintered rose!
You defy the slang of protons,
the lingo of code, lurking
at the base of the sunlight's spine, waiting
to strike with your feather hammer
at the beach or at the grocery store.
Please, eighth-note the composer missed,
jet hummingbird that darts between days –
why does the kingdom of the raindrop
falter when you speak?
You never leave me,
just as I have never left that poolside
at her parents’ in Aix en Provence,
the way she came up, dripping,
and smiled at me from the deep end.