Paris by David Beckman

light   cathedral towers straining west   gardens where trees wear scarves and people plant themselves deep  
putting out roots and leaves that
fall   come fall   Streets matrix at corners   buses troll   daring history  
in the metro below rue Monge an old man in tattered sweater


birdwalks
toward me to say   monsieur votre écharpe est sur le sol
then bends to retrieve it for
me   we resist all history here   all
light for fear it has more to say than we and feels it more
and will far past when these words wash away toward
Argenteuil

we can’t get enough of your river   as if finer life were flowing here
and we tourist-lemmings head for it day
and night looking for some truth awash
near Pont Neuf since 1607 when men sharpened quills   dreaming
under scudding clouds that beauty was only here   and
art.

beauty is here and art and forgotten hands that strained to be a part of it    at the tip of ile de la Cite   randy Henri IV established
a pubic bone of land where he dallied long
and named a narrow cobbled triangle opposite   the clitoris of Paris    oh, le mot just    we walk there now thirsty for meaning and a glass of red Bordeaux.