Cobblestones (pavé)
 
When wet,
the pavé
echoes
with our human sound:
 
sound of Isabella
as she moans ~
delighted flesh
upon flesh ~
and burps
her homemade
Portuguese wine.
Sound of John Lee Hooker’s
Mississippi Delta Blues,
incongruous
in austere Paris gloam.
Sound of a wine glass
~ clink ~
and Isabella’s heels
skimming across the pavé
as she runs
to catch the last métro.
Sound of a coin bouncing
off my windowpane
when she returns
the next day,
her laughter animating
the dead
dry stones
that bear us
patiently
away.