City

 

So I wander

through the maze of Parisian alleys—

picking through a fog of new words, peeking in windows

full of gelato and menus,

denim jeans hung like bats

in caves of commerce.

I march tirelessly

through the gutters of one quartier

to the gardens of the next,

remembering each family

having lunch on the canopied terraces—

each conversation

lifted and set down again

like cups of coffee.

I steal past the enormous cemeteries

with their stone towers,

wires and gates that draw the borders

between each mourner’s gulf of memory,

each vast canal of granite testament

each tomb of new beginnings.

I enter a church sometimes,

following the spiraling beams

that soar into the holier layers,

the tortured wood that flows over the crypts,

the supine saints

that collect the city’s prayers

into the same place.

I read the scribbled texts

in the smooth saunter of tattooed brothers

and the cigarette smoke

of sleek women

who remind me of cigarette smoke.

I recite the verses

to second-story sweatshops,

to Chinese book-keepers that mask other ambitions,

to graffiti’d grottos and dancehalls

that inaugurate a new generation—

And through in these architectures,

I walk home

through these burgeoning neighborhoods,

pregnant with

bookstores and boutiques

that replace old boulangeries

and chocolatiers,

through the concertos of Arabic

and the carols of closing shops,

through the breath of lamb on spits

dancing for my hungry eyes—

I walk home,

nodding goodnight to the odd couple

under the yellow awning—

the yogi in saffron—

and the bearded traveler in a suit,

sharing a bottle of cheap wine,

sheltered from the rain that is beginning to fall.