Satie stirs, while
breeze seeps through
a window left ajar
in Belleville, our home.
The scent of white wine,
our blood. The salt lamp
kindling. Your precious
I shall cast these cracks in the pavement
with molten gold, so that I may hold
these seconds turned to hollow streams
these chasms of a past I want to chase.
Before the concrete bolts once more
let time thaw – then freeze.