Dana Alsamsam Impressionism with Pigeons Fucking

In Paris   even the pigeons are a nicer color

mauve   blue gray   In Paris   the pigeons

are fucking on a wire so we’re jealous of them

too   like the well-dressed women sipping wine

A new friend drinks Sancerre with me   at first

we pour acceptable amounts into clear   plastic

cups but   after some time letting our bodies

retire   we drink from the bottle   the cold

neck condensating into our hot   summer hands

He leans back   looks slightly up at the Marais

past the vision of the pigeons still going at it

the Seine rushing beneath his feet   his teeth

white with buffering possibility   There is

the destined water   the birds making smaller birds

but we are not thinking about time   static

in our here now   discussing   in French

the insecurity of being too American for France

of all the other selves   Yes   even those pigeons

are a nicer color   Across the river   the bends

of a fallen tree catalogue ruin   the musician

behind us plays slow covers of American songs

we like   The evening opens an indigo bloom

above our heads   we open with it towards

what we had never known but feel   now

intimately   a solitariness which is unacceptable

for Paris   one which does not lead to romance

Even the fucking birds feel it when they knock

from the sky   forget each other’s colors as dark

becomes them   The Marais above takes care of us

we feel the lights becoming our many mothers

Across the river   lovers hold hands like they do

in Paris   exchange a smile   My friend imagines

them fucking like the pigeons   his laugh skips a stone

leaves ripples   My heart tells me   I must not

have a right to such tiny   beautiful things


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