I La carte postale
As we say arboretum here I walk below the arbres
down the Rue Jussieu amongst the mottled ombre.
The books shrink on their stalls the shop walls crack
to craquelure. The Seine might be the Acheron
if Eliot had got his langue on. The cafés brim.
The heat ensures an ambery slick above the upper lip
part pimento tar and garlic but miscible
with the Beaujolais I’m drinking by the bottle.
From bed I hear Emmanuel the bourdon
bell (at Notre Dame the tourists shout him down).
Outside the traffic drones a Perotin melisma.
As always I think of you I wish that you were here.
from Confer (Bloodaxe, 2011), © Ahren Warner 2011, used by permission of the author and the publisher