Nobody blames you for hurrying
Back to Paris, and missing
Most of what takes place onstage.

It should be entered from the old quarter
At its center, the easiest part to get lost in.
—It happened to many of us here, as children:

Come, the wood is secret
And alive. Day is not yet near.

His shadow in the frescos
Is the first admitted
Into a picture. Before this,

Dr. Redacted will tell me not to tell you
this, like this,
in a poem: how it’s all right, love, that we don’t love
living.

The morning flew by.
Not that it matters, it’s nothing
like flying, or finding a dime behind a cushion,

Steam in the pipes.
Birdsong muted.
A prowl of cat.

The sovereigns of the world are old,
and die without heirs.
Their sons die young behind guarded doors.

"Isn't it time I slipped my leash?"
         she thought.         For him, what was it?
A quickening. A corner he hadn't turned.

The town’s southeastern edge.
Tolbiac Bridge down there.
Endless freight terminal.