Timmothy Liu
Notre Dame at Night
Its facade sand-blasted
while twirling batons
aflame at both ends
captivate my attention
more than our Lady
empedstalled there
above the central arch—
that smell of kerosene
where lovers transfixed
by sloppy kisses fail
to catch sight of my man
pissing near the gates
of an out-of-service
toilette where the steps
dead-end into a tomb
made out of shadows
cast by the triple-belled
gaslights lighting up
the square where bongos
echo off the walls and
all that touches most
continues on unseen—