GREGORY A. RYAN
Danton Keeps His Head
Traffic beetles across the Quai Voltaire
as an old man's oiled mask is exposed
to
the cool dusk. A large wing passes over
T.Y.
screens, obscuring the late
newscasts so on ly voices play. The station
closes for the night, its last
images drift with beached clippings on
the Seine. Echoes from protests roll
down the street, breaking into needles
cel lophane, ice, sunbright like
a surgeon's teeth, until there is little
more than the white noise of an office,
a cleaning woman crying, her boy counting
breadsticks on a wooden cha ir.
The cigar smoked that evening
remains on the gateleg table, the card deck
still wet from sp ill ed cognac,
the whispers of merchants beneath the street,
counting bottles, cork and wax.
Then, lock tumblers disengage, a lace
veil drops into the alley
below, and the ghost of Danton whirrs
among the bricks of the Rue des Medicis.
STEPHEN SANDY
Two for Tu Mu
Old poet, lover of caves,
inveterate seeker, or looking
into the sun setting
