Oilgraph on canvas  // 6” x 8”

"They had followed me the entire way from Montmarte
along the river
over the Passerelle Solferino
and bared their teeth in
the tearing lightning

every voice was ancient
and I, younger than the gaslamps
refused to go home

not until I saw the light
not until I stood in the hush
of stone and the voices gave up their rage
like the rain drunk into the stone

it was the last light in Paris that night
and somewhere out of sight
a door shut another opened
i could taste the wet air of history

something silent brushing close
a warning a portend
but i've learned not to listen"

-Private collection-