Paris

 

A ghost town lives beneath the skin

Of this metropole.

Abandonment is lodged within

each brick, block and pole

 

Coughs in the pipes, leaves skidmarks

On the staircase wall

Rustles in the pocket corner remarks

Of your neighbors down the hall.

 

Mene mene tekel uparsin

Says the Chinese fortune cookie.

Yver is icumin in.

We are all waiting here for delivery.

 

A pigeon sits on the roof of the burned out cathedral

Here are the horses, child, and here is the steeple.