Debussy must have known how night can smile
content as stars' reflection through Fontaines
de la Concorde. Or feel heartbreak defile
lovers’ sacred trust, every gnawing pain
dissolving a lock on Ponte Milvio.
Or hover indifferent as silence
lingering in vast void of moon shadows
artists record from Montmartre, their pens
and brushes glowing with fire. I wonder
if Voltaire, aging at Ferney, recalled
Paris and his Oedipus. I
ponder
Anouilh, how his subtle asides would fall
dull on Nazis’ ears, yet urge France’s fight.
I wonder, too, if you’re writing tonight.
Roger Armbrust
May 28, 2013
