City Poems: Paris

Interestingly enough: gaudy. We revert! I laugh at it. Who can help it?
nevertheless; in/at comfortable metaphors. We excel! Well---

Little scraping spotlights are the
only hint of a City given from the plane.
Very much like a poor beautiful Boy on his back,
eyeing the cloud-burst evening over Normandy. Too bad he died at Night.

~ instilling my own senses.
Nothing else will do. ~

Perhaps, I have fallen too far in between…who can tell:
are the Dictators to blame, or just the adherents? Both are men!
Really! Does it matter?
in any case. I lift up Some shadows that I am not in a aero plane to see…
somehow, I am convinced it is your hand.