We walk down streets in icy sleet
and sometimes see our breath
while steeples of Parisiz churches look down our fragrant words
Cheeks red, we exhale rainbows
they turn to spent
motor oil on pavement
and words entwine in corroded copper beanstalks
which grow next to
gaping steps
they beckon on and into depths
of the Metropolitain
from France mouths words pour like onion soup
and lean doe
eyes, flutter with winter butterflies.
A baguette is our daily bread, and we give thanks;
Street swindlers take our self-esteem, and we course.
and look down windy boulevards
stretching out
into regions unseen,
Where taut black men sell keychain Eiffel towers made of ebony,
they look into milky distance;
see smiling café vendors fall backwards into golden vats
of vanilla mousse
they froth
at the mouth, irises turned skywards
as if God
himself, the one up there
had kissed
their shrivelled cock-
The distance
calls to us
in a language
we understand, but
vaguely recognize.
Our flight leaves tomorrow
The snows cover the region, and will
not let up
for another
forty
days
Jim Stein
