Say of Paris that one day you grew tired of walking.
The meters calling up the bags to visit, not to come
over as friends. A Cesar whistled to be stoned
there, was forgiven for sentiment, re
marked, membered. Minded a pat
square between the blades. As if you’d have flicked my
Marcelo a cigarette, spitting as you do at your gutters
to groom the mice.
Surrender the most obstinate of our traits.