The city of love has more mathematicians than any other city in the world,
and I’ve fallen out of the mould we’re cultured in:
fed a strict diet of rigor and theory and whispers of beauty,
I was caught starving, and out cast.
So, jerked awake by the cold tears of an evening in April,
I now roam the streets bloated with hunger,
looking for the light in a city
overwhelmed by smell.
If QED is poetry then it’s contradictions I hold holy.
So let there be,
let there be,
a set of poets in Paris more open
than a face, unaware, steeped in peace.