Your wink is a coin
lost to the undulating Seine
The tracer on a shadow in a Chinatown bar
On Belleville, your eyes are bullets
Your heart is a malachite bottle
smashed on the piss-river cobblestone streets of 4am
My hands
open themselves
on the shards as I puzzle them together
At 7am, I only pray
you haven’t melted into the gutters glittering
beneath the milky moon
You are my shivering night above spires
Your ribs
are the arches of the Saint-Germain des Prés, marrow
sucked out
and spat into the city’s open veins
But you laugh, your lungs gusty as the last windmill
Your feet are the Metro two minutes late
Your tongue the Metro a minute early
Your mouth a teapot full of blood
Your smile is a half moon
that lingers on
into the morning rising like fog above the canal,
the murky chamber pot of the night
a sun shower summoning steam from reluctant streets
a sun shower summoning me
to the tops of hills and down
winding mazes
Your pelvis is a toy gun
disintegrating at the bottom of a bridge
Your name
is the address of a house demolished and replaced long ago
You are the village vanishing down the city’s gullet
The slit of your spirit a cemetery open to the public
The pulse at the neck of the capital
I can touch you, but
you are in the passing glance
of each stranger, the woman
on each corner, the man
in each café
You are everywhere –
a ribbon of silver
smoke,
you are gone
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