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.