I know a place where the dried leaves of autumn play in the wind circling madly in their delight, round and round a sculpture of Honoré de Balzac who sits pensive contemplating nothing at all I know a place where the clouds part to enlighten the statues of men but not the men themselves where carillons quietly weep on the hour every hour for the ears of graven images statuettes and figurines as commemoration of affairs long forgot as tradition, as habit but no longer for benefit I know a place we can go where the view takes whatever breath the steep spiral staircase that leads there deems worthy of leaving with you where panting dilettantes and lookie-loos flock in the hopes of gaining a little culture as if this mere sight allowed them to rub elbows with the bored, decadent, and all-too-polished elite I know a place by the riverside where an old man sells books to old men in a busy corner where children play riparian games and pay no mind to the fashion dames and their entourages who sell the city to the world as if it were the bellybutton of the world I know streets lined with courtly mansions and august gateways kept by taciturn gendarmes who stand motionless like so many statues, whilst ministers and diplomats hurry about the business of restoring the old empire to its former glory I know places where green tea is served in reverence places where the soufflé is baked to perfection and places where candied figs, apricots and citron are packaged neatly in white little boxes with ribbons and fresh dragon fruit is split open in rich fuchsia tones to the delicate palates of passers by I know a place where at the right time of night a girl will offer pretty smiles and a little play if the heart longs for it a greybeard sits by your side and offers a shot of absinthe and the old Roman gods will frown on you pondering what their next move should be I know a place, a little jewel of a place mine eyes long to see again ere the end of days [7 XI 2012]