Forsaken by the ideal man,
A heartbreak does the best it can.
Whatever it can,
It doesn't have Originality
(The thing foremost upon its mind).
If it does, then it was not that kind
Of heartbreak. Or that kind of man.
So a voyage
Doesn't come as a cliché.
The wound just itches
Till it gets away.
Away--to the desert,
to a hideout in a tree,
to a hole in the ground.
In my case, to Paris.
I never made a claim
to Originality.
Black and white, and bridges,
Metaphors fit to slap me in the face.
I used to find reminders in every unlikely place.
Now they find me--the lovers
Making public love
In every shaded,
in every sun-drenched,
In every unsecluded public space.
Paris will drive you on, and on,
Walking until you faint, and cry, and heave
With empty stomach and lonely-heart gangrene,
Will push you through a hideous, ignoring
Crowd of ugly summerers
Who talk like you,
Like you would, if you had someone
To talk to.
At the hour of communal accord
The street will suddenly
Evaporate, to leave you
Stranded in the blinding, blazing heat,
Alone, and thirsty--the unmoored
Foreigner completely obsolete.
The rain will come just when you feel at peace,
At last, and you will creep
Beneath an awning,
Watch the old men eat
And you will shiver, freeze,
And you may weep.
You'll spend your money
Till it's gone. That was the point
Of having it. You keep
On walking, since it's free.
What's more, you stay alive. Does not that
Tell you something? Something
You can think about in a month, a year, or two--
Make sense of, probably, in three.
Paris beats you in the head,
Paris goads you in the knees,
Drives you breathless to its highest point,
Then leaves.
The view from Sacre Coeur
Means nothing from the top,
But everything when you have come back down
And cannot see it anymore.
(summer of 2005)
