It’s a Belmondo day,
a morning À bout de souffle —
“The Girl” giving away AM New York
mumbles French.

Disjunct, the sun, double-
jointed like a thumb, traces ellipse,
bound to the earth by suspicion, uncertain
whereabouts,

up to something no doubt,
lost in thought. But now the tissue
of clouds as illusion tears, letting color
there be light,

sound deafen exposure
of black and white. Every god knows,
consistent, conservative in belief,
only one

Paris exists: not least
unique in daydream or deceit
cinematic: nonesuch other similar
anything.