Paris, I come,
expectantly,
excitedly,
artlessly.
Seeking your glow,
your streetfulness,
your elegant grime,
your dogshit,
your new socialism,
your linguistic flow,
your glimpsed lives,
enpackaged
in storeyed sixths.
Be gentle with me
as I trample
your vowels,
underpronounce
your consonants,
and eschew,
a diner,
your duck.
Gillaume, 25 juillet
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