Troop (je marche)

In a pit of plastic frogs in paris

I fell, hobbled,

on allée andré breton 

the poets rushed forward, mais

non, I winced, je marche 

I gnash my teeth,

Roberto,

your thin legs

at which I spent so many hours 

–in what language does there lie a yellow bow

to pull my cramping limbs together? 

there were grey crossbeams, rain

there was soft, wet, red 

I’m tired, she said

un peu fatiguée 

the modern, a mantis

has staked me 

I examine the flag, standing

my black fingernail flukes across the scape. 
 

                  - Paris, February 2008