France will float and linger
for a day or two at most –
gently jolt me – coast me
through her ghostly wake,
softly breaking into aberrant
dimensions of New York.
Paris is a phantom mildness –
vestiges and memories
of déjeuner two weeks ago:
a cream-sauced cotelette of pork,
subtly bubbled by the Perrier
I sipped as its accompaniment.
A-lumpity-dumpity-do – by dint
of nonsense rhyme,
dismembering, remembering,
I pass the time: imagining I feel
the Ile de Saint-Louis
hold onto me.
.
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