From Paris

I am writing this in Paris
on a pontoon in a bark hut from
the top of a building. Some confetti in my hair
makes me feel celebratory and stable.
It is raining in the valley, there are children
squealing with sarcastic joy and a woman
with blond curls rigorously agitating
a blue rug. There is a man with sandals
on but his feet are bleeding. An avocado
on some stale bread on the veranda.
Some sailors, a book of poems by Rimbaud,
and some cute little packet of Euros.
Violence to my face mask and lamb coat.
I'm trying to get to the metro in time
for my recital. My poems mean nothing
to the people in charge of transit and commerce.
I'm stumbling all the time but I'm gaining
insight into the way my body works
without my mind guiding it.