ville de paris


stood like the islands-

the ship
was a red
mountain over
the saintly capes,

sang out in tidal layers, the
great ships. they floated above
narcissus, the decatur refractions
in the

autumn bay,
and the birds
slept among
the riggings

so they stood like islands-

islands, with
wide eyes. there
was something

above sugar,
or the white lace of the sail

something that felt like wine, after it has dried on a hand,
after so many years away-

and "mon

petite general!"

like an island saint
about the baptized waters, gripping wine
in a wide

grin, staring at the endless land, wishing

so, the sea could be
as large, and that the
large ships, large as
heavy mountains, could
like the capes,

rise about the tide,
white as the seabirds.