On the sunny afternoons
In the Bonne-Nouvelle Quarter
I could hear her
Singing
To her flowers
Abounding
And lavish
Within
The old stone walls
Of her modest
Garden
Though
Overheard
She wasn’t singing
To myself
Or anyone else
The birds
Also listened
If in the breeze
She pricked
Her finger
On the
Delbard
Folle Courtisane
Rose
Her voice
Did not falter
She would sing
To the blood
Dripping
On chartreuse
And pale yellow
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