Beaten, bled in thundering summer morning,
Legume-flower-lavender sheets absorbing
Desktop dust, your ghost is a voilier storming
Bride of the weather.

Piled on bullet-riddled Phoenician harbor
Catacombs, the chapels in rockwork ardor
Shadow broken Vieux Port hotels, a bartered
Language and calyx.

Heroine, your dampness and odor linger,
Follow through the Bourse and its moonlit supper
Toward this café battlement’s hopeless-fingered
Skeleton awnings.

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