I was parading the Côte d'Azur, hopping the short trains from Nice to Cannes, following the maze of streets in Monte Carlo to the hill that overlooks the ville. A woman fed me pâté in the afternoon, calling from her stall to offer me more. At breakfast I talked in French with an old man about what he loved about
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I am a city of bones deep inside my marrow, a song in electric chords, decrescendo to mute, rise to white noise, half silences in a blank harmony as all comes to nothing, my eyes the central fire of my soul, yellow, orange, red—gone in an instant and then back when I am, for a glimpse, as precise as a bird’s breath, when I am perfect, undone by hope when hope will not listen, the moon wasting to where I need not worry that bones turn to ash, a brittle staccato in dust.
Afaa Michael Weaver
Born in 1951, Afaa Michael Weaver is the author of several collections of poetry, including City of Eternal Spring (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2014), and a full length play.