1.
Twice a year a Japanese tourist falls
into shock
when his train
of thought collides with the thoroughbred
vision of the city of light.
In the arrhythmic moments
of readjusting his frame
life's own bright pastiche smudge
bleeds through a tourniquet of belief
and the city seen as Paris,
in his mind, begins to smolder.
Paradise is pointillist:
thought shortcuts perfectly
circular islands of color,
sound and shape till seamless,
using distance to fill space.
2.
Your face eclipses mine,
world dimmed to a glow.
To a tourist we are kissing,
to me you are haloed.
