Spleen 68

The cock silent as lace and slow rain,
parce que personne sacks empty palaces.

Communard bones shook en rage
as students above ground
called their tombs la plage.

Banks where pretty women
smiled wide as boulevards,
singing slogans,
their eyes on young men who,
cent ans avant, buried reds sous les pavés.

Realists effaced the possible
avec Lacan flooded lacunae.

Entering the palace,
cocks, loud as ever,
crow.
               
                  In every intime non
                    grave reds heard
                         Foucault.

To Me

Atropos

             I
Above
crisp sails swell full cheek.

In white cloth,
                               bright as scant cloud
                               crossing Sun,
I pace the deck.

          II
Run blind
 threadless youth,
        heels break in time.

Hooked by form's lure,
she cuts livelier lines.