Place de La Concorde
When we roll, the wooden wheels of the cart
Bow slightly so that we wiggle a bit
Like a butterfly in a breeze. The barest pause,
From the grit of the cobbles, mimes the burr
Of a military drum, and the crowd, in wonder,
Breathe together and gather, the way a crone draws
A rag around her neck, into a tight warm fit.
The place becomes us, no more a thing apart.