All day you have me walking,

visiting old ghosts, old haunts,

mine, yours. They inhabit the Isle de la Cité.

Isle St. Louis . Mine have some meaning, but it is

for us. For last visits, last candles, first, second,

third rites.

Yours, rites of passage, the narrow

roads where once you lived with some other:

Different life, different wife. I wonder then how

much has changed. I pop two euro in the box at

Notredame Take a prayer card, fall to my knees.

Hold the moment, a brief, shiny souvenir.