Cache
Here lies a hectic site, la Cité
tête-à-tête with the Seine
while Notre-Dame goes on rising
like the heel of God’s boot.
Ancient Roman isle, river
flung around it like a lavender
orchid lei around a neck: here lies
the new moon with the old moon
in her arms. Voici the sheer
leers of else, ready for hire.
We filled the room
with stargazer lilies, the scent
of a sentence when it’s ready
to speak. Relevant: the nuns folding
from relevé to grand-plié
as they touch the stones
in Saint Gervais then kiss
the tips of their fingers
while worshippers lift
their arms, saguaro cacti
lost in the dark
or longhorn cattle swaying
in the nave. Here lies
cash, lire, a sachet of sighs: pay
to the account of I’ll: yesterday,
here, hier and ici, the icy ache
of ich. You taught me
tart grammar, how to keep
thin slices of apple on edge
in crème pâtissière the way words
remain en pointe in a poem. Write
to me here: Dante@Kimosabe
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