I don't know anything about Paris,
so try not to trust me
if I say I do. I know
how St. Nectaire tastes
after it, along with the rest
of my lunch, has been inadvertently warmed
by my sleeping body which was in search
of a pillow on a long RER ride to Versailles.

The emptiness of a town
living in the shadow of a palace,
and the impossibility of finding
a cheap drink are familiar.
The insolent pleasure of sitting
at a glass-top table in a cafe of which
I will never become a formal patron
is something I've claimed.

A little down from the Sacre Coeur
I knew the sweat of your unsure hand
on my back as I climbed up a fence
to snap a photo of the smoky summer layout
of a city I do not know.