for those who died in Paris attacks
Streetlights on rue de Charonne
The bleakest line is a bow of breath, no music.
Rising I witness
this foreign light. So late,
and seeing the night
lay down its moon blade for complacency.
comes into the world from the dark
coming from a different
light, a trench high and smiling –
Who are they
to flock in iron. Holding the line of breath
as if a direct
channel through to God.
A child’s cry has more art. I am stunned
by their succession of blades
cutting back the body of fields.
They contain a message, sharpening
in the process
of touch. Naked beneath, single roads
and deeper curves that might be
the body of a woman –
But there is no
woman in this dead bright, no man.
Only the static breeding
of air, the monotonic
prayer clouds that hang
their heads, mutter electric.
They have lit the path
to the underworld.
Soon they will compress in stone.
Deepen the stars
to a mute thing we only
refer to without history.