cent dix huit boulevard de courcelles
with a heavy night's grain still floating
eleven and five are twins as i swallow mouthfuls of dyed cotton
sobbing like the child i was in that overnight technicolor display
filaments pour from the Parisian sky
looking up from the courtyard to see the apartment's walls shimmer blue like the deep end of a Shemran pool
20 years on he's stuck in my throat more than ever
and in sleep, i realise i don't even know which fucking room he died in.
i've shut down to the extent that it never occurred how his last breath is still trapped in those walls.