Sarah White

Lady Liberty, patron of my souvenirs,
rules the skyline of Manhattan, raising high
her weightless lamp. I plan to agitate
the town, invert its lofty structures, and shake,
from the concave sky, a waxy shower.
I want to create  another winter hour
and trim with frost the city’s  girders.

East of my home town stands Paris, France
with its Unknown Hero’s Tomb, its Arch
of Triumph where invaders smugly
marched one day. May they be the last. May
Our Lady’s spire,  lately burnt to cinders, be restored.
May the dome of Sacré Coeur remain intact—
a snow-white cake wrapped in a winter blanket.

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