Poetry: Blessed Paris


A blast of winter had conquered Paris

In the spring, so we allowed time to drain

In the laundromat watching twisted clothes

In lollipop machines, grim street scrubbers

Armed with vicious lime brooms organizing

Cigarettes and papers in mushy piles.

At night, cuba libres with ax-faced girls

Puffing on small cigars next to a pair

Of overdressed backpackers from the States,

Engaged in the art of resurrection.

At breakfast we caught them at La Coupole,

Preaching indifference with bent elbows,

Communing with ghosts in fervent belief

In consecrated coffee and croissants.

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