paris

we are drunk after lunch
and lost in the latin quarter—
your footsteps counting cadences,
quick ticks on a metronome
walking us eventually
to the end of this movement.
then, the boulevard saint-michel and
suddenly the seine, opaline in the sun.

after cinque arrondissements
and four or five da capa al fines
in the form of platitudes like
paris is laid out like a nautilus shell, spinning
out from the center and
in barcelona, the buildings looked like
they had hangovers--

finally montmartre, with
the smudge-faced men tying
loose green and red and yellow strings
around the wrists of gullible tourists
in front of the carousel
at the bottom of the steps of sacre coeur.

and at the bottom of those steps i am
at the bottom of a canyon,
with a fray of strings around my wrist
and whines of ghost accordions echoing in my ears,
and flying, dipping, expressionless unicorns
spinning in front of my eyes.

zurich

on top of lindenhof,
lime blossoms and tiny green fruit
hang delicate from tendrils, thin
yellow ribbons strung from the lindens' branches.

we sit, silhouettes under the tangles
of limb and leaf, and in silence
we assume we're alone,
but birds shoot out from under the deck like arrows
at the start of a car engine
like the clearing of a throat.

and they are silhouettes, too,
suddenly so many feathered shapes,
flapping and flying around us against
seamless blue: the sky and
lake zurich, an open mouth
circled by rows of pointed,
snow-capped
teeth.