My heart pours to the sidewalk
red-sweet as granité de fraise,
spreading like sun into every scar.

Gather under a foreign tongue,
untouacable as angels, there are
angels here, surging from the woodwork.

We flood a place incomprehensibly beautiful,
made so by more than smog-kissed cathedrals
who crumble leasurly to be reborn as well.

Coming into a world more expansive than the hills
climbing before the Chateau de Caen’s turrets
where I lounge openly on a lesbian flag.

The roses de trémières guard us
as we rush the streets to the fanfare 
with palpable love, so much so that it’s terrifying.