by Kazim Ali
I walk instead along the river, my cathedral
not of stone or god but water made.
A woman in the median is shouting into her phone,
her diatribe punctuated by that most French of words:
“Franchement, je n’y crois pas!” and
“Franchement, je savais que cela arriverait!”
The Louvre roofs rivet tight the short horizon.
A discarded fan in the gutter, broken, fluttering.
Who was I when I came here before.
What were all the reasons I found all this so beautiful and unspeakable.