Firms are closed on Place d’Armes,
Friday offices dark, except for a few
partitions: windows, whole floors,
left bright. Brewery smoke merges with the winter sky. Bells are ringing
in the square, from the time of God,
before our banks introduced the Law.
Notaries have rushed down the hill, freezing, to reach their metro station,
heads still cramped, inheriting taxation.
Having arranged to meet her tonight
I am in a vaulted lobby, richly desire.