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Poem for Paris

Not afraid

Kiss every bullet,
and put it in the ground.
The red roses bloom
from such quiet bodies.

Their mouths full
of moth wings,
stifled cries for freedom.
Humphrey Bogart, stick your neck out.

A player piano in a cathedral,
forgets the words
to “We Didn’t Start the Fire,”
while the beautiful friendship

of ivory and steel
fluctuates like a bridge
between here
and the scent of apricots

dabbed on Ingred Bergman’s throat
just before she sings
“La Marseillaise” and mistakes
her own heartbeat for cannon fire.

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