"The Last Word On Attitude Of The Quiet",

the only place to buildings. We discover the alleys but learn to watch each baby step, fold light into the tightest places.Little Istanbul at the Gare de Lyon. In this weird pain, we rarely see

what resides, only feel like adding heft to the spill.
Of a need to recover? Need to recover. We meet at the end. Corpses of a moment. The toxic illuminated in our eyes and skin. Another world. No money. A thin, white, sugary girl, sparkling evocatively even on strawberry pastilles. No one wants to interview the terrorist poet; we fight aimlessly on, past ambulances cloudy with second hand smoke, past the unexpected hard drops, the pharmacies with their red crosses. Our solitude knows no name, just music. There is no more dome to dream under. We are out! Out, cutting poppy into a shortcut. Our feet left there. A sensory image: two irregular sonnets, slight matte daubs of past invasions, transgressions. I feel like you are Roman Catholic so we set a goal - the highest part of the city, Sacré Coeur. For the longest time the hills keep arriving but no mountain stops. Dervishes appear out of no where & try to sell us their ritual dances. Maybe we’ll leave. Float down a country road, where we can find a holy inbox everywhere.
Jul 20, 2015