With the Fall of Icarus

When I move to Paris -

I will wave at the ghosts of my hometown milling about the skyscraper south end
& I will watch the Mississippi reverse herself as I glide over the dry-dust Ohio on wings of wax
& I will turn to the Appalachian plains where coal-flowers grow between the cities row on row

I will follow the coastline cliffs to glassy-eyed Atlantic (I will not mind the sun)
& I will meet the Continent as my engine purrs invisibly against the tarmac
& I will pedal de Gaulle to the Seine and observe the fallen Tour d’Argent

I will walk the empty fruit stands asking combien ils coûtent and quelle heure est-il(every clock will read midnight or noon)

I will take myself to the avant-garde’s latest and greatest blank reels and laugh
& I will write my own bare books in the deserted sidestreet cafés of Montparnasse

I will watch as the catacomb corpses drown, as the City of Lights melts in the bonfires
(& I will forget my wings of wax, melting like a dream deferred)

- when I move to Paris.