Strangeness.

I stand above everything.

The ordered streets open themselves up to me,
and below, shiny roofed cars battle their way
around the roundabout.
A street lined with trees yields up its pale pavement
and white stone buildings
to the sun.

The other day we walked up a hill
to the round domed building,
past the buskers and strange,
foreign shops,
and looked down at this same city
from a different angle.

Tomorrow,
we will stand outside the great cathedral
and let small birds eat out of our hands,
instructed by the strange man
with a smile that holds the world’s joy
when they flock to him.

And perhaps we will get lost again,
finding our way to a bridge over the Seine
with a string quartet playing on it
at some late hour.

Then, as now,
with strange sounds in my ears,
this is life.
This is living.