Caput stagnum.

Walking rows of sad french catacombs,

by a canal so straight;
games of cards at a bar, home-born fears
afar, in a holiday haze of cold amber—

(the riverbed ran dry, by grandiose houses);

nights spent, sat by stalls, deep wine,
swigged, drunk and spied,
chicken fat dripping on country spuds,

gone like the lake, most peculiar, as love.