Bastille Day | revolut, revolt, revolution
left forefinger jutting forward, suspended in condemnation from the crowds
He couldn’t
not take off
the phrygian cap
that hid
his unwashed hair
as he pulls back
the jaws of the musket
He couldn’t
not exchange
a blood-webbed stare
then the screech of the cannonballs
and the heat
and the sudden
appeal of cold cold corners and catacombs miles miles miles deep below the Paris streets.
The way
alabaster meets cobbled-stone, wind teasing
the bloodied, auburn hair,
as they pull back his neck
for a moment
left forefinger jutting forward
suspended in condemnation
from the crowds
surging,
hands fluttering, landing now to still
his right hand
nervously tapping
so useless against
the emptied glass on the emptied table.
She shouldn’t be late.
He couldn’t
guess where
it all might lead,
but he couldn’t
not take the chance
so that it might, lead
somewhere
the city beams in the haze of la nuit blanche
and rivers of neon
refracted in puddles
between the cracks
where alabaster meets cobbled-stone
which echoed her heels and
her accent
sounds French,
and it is Bastille Day.
Anything’s possible,
n’est-ce pas?
…but the [French Revolution] is just a bunch of French people, complaining…
- noah, over dinner
