I want the bottom to drop.
This plate of clouds spinning above the tower,
I want the center to break
Letting ceramic and ropes of
Precipitate pasta pour around me.
I want to fall asleep
among this grass
among these gnats
among these lovers
I want to wake up in the rain, an empty field.
My white t-shirt, clinging like skin.
My mouth, a cup of water.
My eyes, the only dry place in Paris.