Paris

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

clean,

and artists step in boat

shoes along wet streets,

on dying pavement

now and always

theirs;

 

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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