Joshua Ware

Windows Aren't Necessarily French

for Nicolas Pesqués

but translation leaves them open
to interpretation, like countryside images
taken from a speeding train
the reflection of the photographer's hand
out-of-focus and overlaid upon green
fields or lifeless winter branches.
Elevators aren't necessarily gallows
but Parisians die within them daily
as they wait for grappling hooks to fall
from the railing of a diplomat's balcony.
A woman's platinum blonde hair
wanders rain soaked streets
in search of her absent lover
and the trumpet tones of Miles Davis
unaware that a stranger's death
means the death of ourselves: some trick of fate
the gods, long since dead, left in place
for us to feel the force of their absence.
Our only escape is to write a hill
yellowed beyond translation.