Lost Pages from a Guide Book
Over the unsure-of-itself iron balcony
Paris tart-sharp in copper-plate neon,
breakfast is croissants, orange juice, coffee -
The rue-de-Something shivered like a cat
Girls had paced the kerb half the night,
There was a café where les travestis held court
You could write a book about it,
The purring sound rising off the pavement,
Piss and petrol, a street-sweeper riding
On circular brushes. Somewhere a radioful
Of Maghreb music, manic and loud -
The crack of a window slying over your head
A first day opens like a flower or a tomb
A light anxiety flushed belly-deep -
No postcard this, but an X-ray, a scan to the bone.
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