In all the streets of Paris the sirens are sounding
Notre Dame is burning, Notre Dame is burning
And then in chars suddenly
all the holy stone in chars
white stone ashes
heavy palms
Notre Dame is burning in the calm
The little boy on the bridge, the woman
on her phone. Notre Dame is burning,
there are flames in our home and it is no
fault but our own. (The willow is weeping by the Seine that flows idly by,
Notre Dame is burning and we don't know why)
a deep fear of the future
of the names of shadowy children
coats that reach our ankles
to hide them from the sun
all the windows are mirrors that don't
reflect my face
director of my mind
lost here writing half poetry
tiny bottles of five year old rum
the face he makes when he comes
up to me and holds my face
his kisses sucked the breath out of my lungs
chewed it slowly like a yellow sponge
in and out we jump and plunge
the scales that sway, dart and lunge
in a lance straight through the heart
the message rolled up tightly
I still love you, this is all a farce
I pull it out and let the blood run out
Why do you keep clawing my skin
if you don't want to come in?
The sirens are sounding over Paris
in waves of goodbyes, life continues as
though there was no fire, as
though there has never been any
burning
