view from salon de thé
They stayed right here, as if left behind
by a flood that had washed their forms
free from the rock.
The waters receding erased some details,
but their hands are generous
and grasp at nothing.
They stayed, distinguished from their native rock
only by a halo or a bishop's mitre,
and sometimes by a tranquil smile
kept it alive in a face
where it lasts forever.
They retreat now into the shadowed doorway
that could be the shell of a listening ear
which captures every moan of a city in pain.