Postcard from Paris
‘It is the mating season, the women
are all in heat. My problem is the rain;
the lines are washed away. No one
survives without water. The city
simmers, the seethe of ivy climbing
walls, my hemline swaying, high heels
clicking. In the Metro, the heat, the breath
at the nape of neck. Tomorrow, I’ll walk
to the Luxembourg Gardens, shyly touch
the red tulips for you. Love,’
Page(s) 38
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