Paris in Springtime


I whisper je t’aime.
You shout hate.

I hold hands.
You hack them off.

The stain on my tablecloth is wine.
Yours is blood.

I bare my throat for a kiss.
Not a knife.

Strap children to my chest.
Not explosives.

Shoot pictures.
Not guns.


Once we were at war.
At Agincourt.

We cut off your fingers.
Saluted you with ours


Where I’ve loved.
And been loved.

Walked along your river.
Climbed your tower.

Sipped your Champagne.
Dipped in your river

Ogled your cancan girls.
Haggled for your Impressionists

Winter may be bitter.
But Spring will return.