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.

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