From a Paris Window–High

In this city
of the generous,
all are chivalrous.
It is a scene
where all are kind
unless the wind
be unkind
in blowing chivalrous release
over the unsuspecting mind.
It is a country
where the lip reveals
no bitterness
no irrelevant distress
unless
to be so secular
instills a sharp remorse;
it is a place
where no one ever sees
a face,
and yet strange bodies
meet
and speak an alien
sanskrit
in which specific comprehension
eternally resides,
and no grammatical despairs
are theirs.
Sunday is the day
when motley
sways
their way,
who come to speak a word
that never shall be heard
unless
it be, that silence
covers all necessity.