Unknowingly, I swept through
the cloud of a breath you left behind
and turned toward the muffled hum
of the métro. Half flailing, half steady.
My head tucked in recognition.
Above, Paris cool in November's grip.
Notre Dame standing still as Hades
over the underearth like a gothic god.
Each ebb and flow an extension
of the evernumb parisienne Winter.
Below, sifts of heated rubber lift.
The underground rumbles murmur
and slip-stream to the darkness
of places they neither were nor will be -
but pass through. Blue, silver, low lit.
