This morning the plaster-white dome of Montmartre
presents to the highway a century’s grime.
It hemorrhages clouds from a cold Sacred Heart
to color the city of Ingres and DesCartes
a boulevard gray. In the interest of time
this morning, the plaster-white dome of Montmartre
speaks not of its grand contribution to art,
but more of its neighborhood’s canvas of crime.
The hemorrhage of cloud from its cold Sacred Heart
calls forward the spirit of Camus and Sartre,
the pipe smoke that wanders and couplets that rhyme.
Of mourning, the plaster-white dome of Monmartre,
of man in the city and man set apart.
A neutralized palette of carbon and lime
is hemorrhaging clouds from the cold Sacred Heart
to vistas bequeathed by a third Bonaparte,
on steps of the Commune, the pilgrim, the mime.
This morning the plaster-white dome of Montmarte
bleeds into the clouds from a cold Sacred Heart.
Paris, October 3, 2010
Waiting for Cassowary 