^{after Paul Celan}

I miss Paris when it rains, I miss the myth
of flower girls selling futures, bleak horse
with its music breaking down: 
You lose the lottery. I leave for the sea.
Grass grows between the cobblestone 
where we once stood, unrelating. 
The room is raining, each petal 
a beautiful hoof. You tune 
the chrysanthemum. I wear water 
as my blue apron, shaking 
your heart from my hair.