from Especially, DeathNeil de la Flor
VI Every night at 3 AM when the Champs Élysées closes shhh because it’s goat milking time. Sweat freezes and tears too because it’s cabby’s choice after Club Queen or you can walk home alone. In January. Musée d'Orsay and Toulouse-Lautrec so dark and confused eyes crossed the Seine to le Hôtel Notre-Dame instead of the cliché Moulin Rouge to dance the cancan with Liza. But she’s retired. So I slipped inside her shoe and slept thinking how bad comfort smells like the sarcophagus at the Louvre where Helen of Troy (Nina) is buried; not in far northwestern Turkey (or Spain). Oh, Spain. Far away— Float like I did when the plane took off and pierced the thick white dense cloud-fog (Achilles) and look down at Paris bubbling (Patroklos) like atomic cotton candy (Hector) and wonder if life (especially, death) can be so.
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