The blackened river ran through the park.
Past there, the numb gardens
were hemmed by thick braids of hedges.

In the Pare de Saint Cloud, birds sang.
Alone in that vast narcissistic forest
overlooking Paris,

A fence. Chestnut trees. Bindweed. God.
A spider web, the hiding place
of first cause, and the thick grass:

That country, like depression, will steal
your youth and turn it into a codeword,
will take your rapture and give grief;

Night, an alien city, I roamed
a street with no name.
Stone steps submerged me deeper

Messengers, panting, die as they run,
cables rush out, candles burning with quick crimson flames,
colonels dozing in carriages faster than light,

Why should that city, defenseless and pure as the wedding necklace of a forgotten tribe, keep offering itself to me? Like blue and red brown seeds beaded