Paris Poem Jan '09

(Almost a year ago exactly...)

I can't quite adjust
to streets that I can't map on grid paper,
and this city without liquid borders.
The streets zig zag and curve with an unfamiliar sprawl
as I walk with my headphones to steady my pace.
Sometimes, when I'm just setting foot on the sidewalk,
a breeze seems to brush my cheek,
and through the music I can hear
my city,
and feel my own streets underfoot
as I set out into the dusk.
Like all breezes and moments that matter
this feeling is fleeting,
and as I cross the street
I remember that this place doesn't sing to me.
We can't even speak except
in halting sentences fraught with disconnects
and lost in translations.
At night though, if I unfocus my eyes,
the lights seem familiar.
And if I listen, underneath the rhythm
of a language not my own,
I can hear the lap of the East River.
And with on focusing breath
I can trace the skyline on my forearm,
where it'll stay for me the whole night.

That space between rivers,
my island of abbreviations
and stumbles and imagined constellations,
is more patient than I.
I wrote the skyline a post card.
It said: Thanks for waiting.