the village on a hill:
part of the city, but
jarring, discordant;

if you want to go
là-haut, be ready
to tire, or instead take

the long metro ride to
Blanche—step out and
look on that well-loved windmill!

then rain will puddle in
the cracks between the
cobblestones and threaten

to slip you up at the next
corner; you’re surely lost
now, but then you see it

through a crowd of
offers to commit your
face to canvas:

so beautiful, mademoiselle,
trop belle! only ten
minutes for a portrait!

bleached domes sweep up
into a sudden blue sky
that still drips a little

down the white steps until—
you’ve never had a crêpe-to-go?
you haven’t lived! vas-y!

legs aching you will regret
that you took the stairs
but forget as you roam the

near-empty boulevards in
descending the hill; wait before
you venture again into that

underworld of rushing,
pause to see the creed as
repeated by lovers the world

over, in every way the
world could imagine to say
i love you. je t’aime.