oubliette
Jennifer Lobaugh
I shambled the streets just as much in your absence—
smoking left-handed and rankling with thirst.
I hated parades, but I loved the procession
of jilted cathedrals on spurned granite setts.
I kept my vigil over Place de la Concorde,
a gargoyle in pin curls and pearls at her throat.
The cat-calls and catacombs yearned to replace you;
the boulevards swooned, and I ached to forget.
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