river-halved city of god

where boulevards run parallel

to bikers panting

in the cold

clear sun,

melting snowflakes

as they drift down

in clusters

towards theSeine;


Seppuku-scarred martyr

where running water cuts

café intersections


and artists step in boat

shoes along wet streets,

on dying pavement

now and always



where Art Deco is

and has always been

l’essence de la vie,

without exception,

as if New York

was breathing smoke

hot and dirty

down La Rotonde’s

gilded back;


where afternoons disappear

dark and crippled

at the bottoms of wine bottles---

and where some golden light

still shimmers,

green and yellow,

on the dark chairlegs

and dusty cobblestone

of café floors.

The End

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