#24

wisps of that Paris, you know which one
frescoes are cracked by shrapnel
manuscripts scrawled in ink, clacked out on Remington’s
raspy renderings of Parlez-Moi d’Amour

coarse-hewn wool, passion threads essence

Griffin chases truth in a café on the rue
I, in this caracól in Cochabamba
vino tinto lapping at glass buoys
and the cathedral is plastered white
we run neck-and-neck in pursuit

what, still?

muses afflict us with desire