You know what it’s like:
you go to Paris with the
intention of getting a macaroon,
an illicit infatuation or two,
a shrug of memory and pastis,
maybe even a dose of Liberty –
and then you come back with
828,000 square miles of land,
two and a half flyover time zones,
a river delta that transmogrifies
despairing cries into global culture,
and a deceptively small bill you’ll
end up repaying in regular
instalments of black blood and cant.
