08/30: red lip waves

Three semi-automatics, a quiver
of steely gray, in the rain, the Bastille
teeming with shook-eyed bangs, yellow shiver
off of raincoat onto macramé. Free
despite the gunmetal, the slipping streets
seem to beat with hard-earned gladness, la vie
joyeuse et éphémere, republique
eternal, theoretical, and we
traipse on our waisted-ways, très élégants,
the red lip waves and foolish cigarettes
each point the city forward, if we want
to leave our hardened ways and hedge our bets —
last week for the first time my cold hands held
this fleeting freedom before it was felled.
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