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