I have walked among the dead
invited for cocktails, coagulating in bistros
behind palisades and work between stacked chairs
under drained office buildings on Rue Dortmund.
I have been in step, again, in time with central bell tower hymn.
A muffled clapper in a burlap sack rings.
The dead
clot here each evening, picking at golden hard quince,
sprinkled bricks of myrrh and numb themselves,
sipping emerald hazed absinthe, having released a will to live.
The dead
drift in from towns elsewhere, we glance distracted
by music and shouts from unseen streets,
return to engage in trivial conversations, while tumblers are refilled.
The dead
wait and tangle me into waiting, are tied here,
by a heaven overflow and red tape.
I realize I grow cold and wish the sun stay.
Fairy fog forms, my breath is garnished and rationed, leaks.