A Garret in Paris

If you leaned over
the peeling window ledge,
one tower of Notre Dame
rose over a rusty bridge.

The puckered Seine labored
down to the storm-tossed coast
while you sat smiling
above the burnt toast.

Each morning your new face
stood modeled in the light,
holding back the feeling
never allowed to ignite.

Darkly underground,
the Métro rumbled on.
You lifted a black eyebrow.
Something there was gone,

and in the air grew
the feathery sound of wings,
like an Annunciation,
among other things.