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painted poem #12/21

Call from Paris


Whistling down the wires

that string together the world,

your voice: It never stops

raining here, you say. Paris

is an ocean of chatter and smoke,


a sea of umbrellas. You tell me

the phone booth is a glass-bottom

boat, the Seine keeps flooding

her banks, and last night

at dinner you couldn’t think


of a thing to say. You tell me

you are part of something

old now. You cannot believe

the way the sky opened

inside the cathedral, the way


the chants lifted you up

like a waterwheel, broke you

into a thousand shining pieces

and sent you raining

back to the world.

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karen.kreidler352
05 sep. 2020

The poem seems to hit home.

What are we to do?

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