Descend lentement le boulevard Saint-Michel en rêvant
We are walking among the sycamores
you know where we are
you with your hair parted sharply on the side
me with my dragon shooting water from its mouth
with our orange sails covering part of the sky
with our rounded doorways and the number 5
*
Things founded in 1865, bodies
fallen in 1943, papers, ironwork grilles,
sunspots blocking our view of cyclists,
an octagonal window, a kid in a dirty
black hoodie begging for change.
*
In the distance the technological achievement
of our century
The orange-red lights in their green holsters
The church saved at the brink of the secular
*
We are carrying six loaves of bread
We have covered the chimneys in greenish mesh
*
A boulevard is wide enough to accommodate
people who wander this city asleep
Prescient Haussmann thought
of everything
By the time we've crossed
by the time we sit in a café where most
women are smoking
by the time we read in our guide
or print instructions from the internet
the conquering angel has stuck
his spear through the snake
We barely wake up
We carry our bowls of goldfish
our oxidised copper domes
our flashing pharmacy signs
our ruins
up the wide street in our arms
*
In the dark every
living thing
and some non-living things
get haloes
Checkerboard pattern
of what is and what isn't there
He looks you in the eye and takes
off on his skateboard
She sets a geranium on the terrace
Tonight a slight wind
A wall that's decaying
A couple dancing the tango in a park
*
I balance my past on my head
a glass cruet of water
light through a single pane
the ornate shapes of door knockers from the last century
mannequins in their windows
a dull sky reflected by the zinc below it
We wake to sleep
We take our waking slow
You take the number 84
the sheath of concrete roses underneath the cant
A real rose blooms on a rooftop
I'm holding the spear now, the laurel
Everything is out of focus
like a tourist's hurried snap
*
Just a collection from the roofs.
So many second-hand books,
girls on bicycles, headlights gleaming
on wet pavement,
queer boys holding pink tricolors,
barges heard but not seen.
Just the shape of a face you almost recognize.
Just a tunnel. Just the rain.
