She was right,

It does bronze.

Now a perfect light

Liquid amber nectar

Overflowing the Seine

Casting an invisible column

Barely broken at all

By the panoramic left bank

And Pont du Carousel.

Yet by me, crossed legs

Edges soft and hard alike,

Are dowsed by this Irish Cream.

My ideas flow around this spot

Unlike the runners who pass,

Now I’ve soaked into the wall

This immense slab of stone,

Sun, light, paper, clothes and all

A fondant of ochre transparency

A fire that dampens all

But the most arid fragrances

Paris...