Sue Sinclair

NOTRE-DAME DE PARIS

The flashes going off every few
seconds, pale moths fluttering

in the hundreds, battering
the pews but desappearing before

they reach the ceiling's high arch.
A kind of migration, echoed

in the rustling of thin pages,
guidebooks in a dozen languages

talking together, wondering why
history is not enough,

why we cling to the deam of heaven,
for each flash releases

such a dream. Our faces are weak
and uncertain: death wanders through

them like a tourist, even here,
where we tilt our heads back and listen

to the rustling pages
and all the other noises we try

not to make – squeaking
sneakers, crinkling Gore-Tex –

rise, drift up to the domed ceiling
and hang there, accidental prayers

of no consequence
but carried up none the less