24 November 2015

Le Parisien

The blood of Paris blends into the Seine,
whose days have been flowing here to die.
I make room for what’s to come in, and then
spirit out of me, unstoppable as man’s strife.
In the end we get to the bottom of the root:
domes of this city are like scabs on flesh
bared by the bad thing. Inside the tube we go
through interiors of bone and then back again,
till we become that Parisian of forevermore.
People follow the cortège through streets
like blood cells in a vein to the body’s end,
then back again to the heart of our city; like
a pall bearer, blood also transfers the dead;
we are fidels who go to prayer, when the voice
of our imam from a minaret calls, or when
the church bell begins to toll, for subjects
whose heart of the matter has been abused,
though not enough for us not to know we mean
to come out fighting, to see this to the end.

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