Perhaps we all live in darkness, drawn to the flicker of light emanating from a fading affair, vagrants bumping clumsily, intentionally, hungrily in a Paris night.
(Source: “Paris by Night”, 40×41: Midlife Crisis Postponed)
Some poems are conceived of tenderness. Others erupt violently, gasping for air.
This turgid fragment from a prose poem called “Paris by Night” is neither tender nor violent. But both impulses mingle near at hand, and the tumescent vignette does enjoy the rare distinction [I think] of mentioning armpit hair.