At 3 a.m. by Sarah Russell

after one more day

without words, Paris

takes you in like a whore,

not surprised you’re back

for another fuck in the dark.

November.  Brittle rain

scrapes the bone.

You walk the sheen of cobbles

to the Seine, where bodies,

freshly guillotined, once floated,

heads left behind in baskets,

past the great cathedral, gargoyled,

buttressed, to the boîte

on St. Louis where absinthe

and jazz make love, and a girl

comes to rub against you

like she knows your name.