The women cluster at the cathedral,
hair in careful bouffant helmets,
armored and elegant, poised to herd
I think, I’ll do that too, but tear up I can’t
Stand still. Wind wisps my hair that gently
you brush like stardust from my eyes. Light shifts
and colors sharpen. Across the square the Grand
Hotel sparkles with
upon mirrors in gold-leaf frames: the soaring empty space
of the Symbolic.
Read the full poem here.