Paris (i)

Bastard Breton-Créole,
he too to this anthill comes-
this bazaar, not of stone at all,
where there's no style to the sun.

-Hang on! The line's forming... A guard
Keep back of that rope! -shoves you hard.
No light now. The fire is out;
yet buckets pass, empty or not.

Here, his poor virgin Muse
made her start, a street demoiselle.
They said: What's she got to sell?

-Nothing. -She stood there, confused,
not hearing the emptiness cry
and watching the wind go by .