In Paris even the pigeons are a nicer color

mauve blue gray In Paris the pigeons

are fucking on a wire so we’re jealous of them

too like the well-dressed women sipping wine

A new friend drinks Sancerre with meat first

we pour acceptable amounts into clear plastic

cups but after some time letting our bodies

retire we drink from the bottle the cold

neck condensating into our hot summer hands

He leans back looks slightly up at the Marais

past the vision of the pigeons still going at it

the Seine rushing beneath his feet his teeth

white with buffering possibility There is

the destined water the birds making smaller birds

but we are not thinking about time static

in our here now discussing in French

the insecurity of being too American for France

of all the other selves Yes even those pigeons

are a nicer color Across the river the bends

of a fallen tree catalogue ruin the musician

behind us plays slow covers of American songs

we like The evening opens an indigo bloom

above our heads we open with it towards

what we had never known but feel now

intimately a solitariness which is unacceptable

for Paris one which does not lead to romance

Even the fucking birds feel it when they knock

from the sky forget each other’s colors as dark

becomes them The Marais above takes care of us

we feel the lights becoming our many mothers

Across the river lovers hold hands like they do

in Paris exchange a smile My friend imagines

them fucking like the pigeons his laugh skips a stone

leaves ripples My heart tells me I must not

have a right to such tiny beautiful things