109.

The barges slip along the Seine, the wind has died

By Notre Dame: the heat of August burns the stone

Even as the night has come. The winter of our hearts

Is gone, and your absence here is the only

Way this city lacks. The moon is snow

Over the Sorbonne, the voice of Héloïse

Fleeing down the few crooked streets Haussmann left.

The avenues are gorgeous, but love is seldom

Linear. It would be folly to lose

Paris or you to metaphor. At Christmas

We will come here and watch the shadows

Between the ruined trees and remember.

Love is in the place and flees the types

Words might make: the river is our breath.