Paris Poem

Pigalle La Fountaine

Suns crawl over blinds
White washed walls
Cobble stone narrow strays
Hills bend before prostitutes,
Bored and waiting
For their laundry.

Puddles explode from drain ways
Absent from rain for days
Bones crust the architecture
As cars thread through
The rich embroided city,
A telescope of history.

Collapse in feeled works
An aperture behind vision
Lifting the torn corners
Of the street peeling back
The texture of absinthe
Mixed with sand and melting.

I have lost the recipe
For sleep passed over womb doors
Dreams and wishes revealed
In the arcane wisdom of bacteria
A shell which prevents entry exit,
Breathing the city has its own sense.

Of traction provided by the lips
Of strangers spilling forth from bars
Of traffic feeding angular meetings
Of a sound that issues from the solar plexus
Of chains and pistons; rods for the back
Of man and woman.

(Paris, June ’08)