I tell you, It has to mean something.

The blessing, St. Sulpice. You arch

your eyebrows skyward, French pout

about your lips. You do not believe.

All about Paris I am ducking

into churches, dropping to my knees

praying prayers for the dead, for the living

and even for you and from your disbelief

some part of you believes. You stand as

a tourist, looking skyward at the green,

tinted windows knowing full well

that you are covered. That I pray for you too.

Otherwise, light a candle: blow it out.

09/26/05 , Paris , France (no location given)