Try describing Paris to
a man who’s never seen it.
Better to hand him a dog-eared copy
of “A Moveable Feast” or nod
in the direction of Balzac,
Fitzgerald, Henry James.
If you forge ahead with words
like beautiful, enchanting,
and weave your way toward
luminous and inscrutable,
by the time you stumble
upon ineffable,
you’ve likely lost him.
Now you’re wandering
down a narrow cobblestone alley
quite alone but for the ghosts
of writers and their swirling worlds of words,
though knowing that eventually
the endless winding streets
will open up into a park
or a garden
or a square
where under a stand of trees
on a weathered wooden bench
you can begin to explore
the new, better version of yourself
you picked out
on a table of used paperbacks
along the Seine.
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