Paris Morning

Tuschen

in the mist.
and along the river,
there is no man walking.
so silent-
it seems
like a barren crucifix. and

the old mother, notre dame,
rises slowly
to her table-top island,
jabbing clouds
with
gothic fingernails, as the current-swift seine
lies warm wrapped,
dark and unholy,
at her feet.

what question,
or worry, buried
in memory,
could not be eased
in the stillness
of this morning?

 

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