(Paris Shaking)

Shepherds of our silence, give yourselves to other men. You struck the rock with your staffs, and where the water flowed (if it did) we shuddered thinking it might wash over us, take something of us with it. Not just the sin or stain of having been in the presence of the human but the human in us too, the bones and sinews, muscle, blood that made us tangible in a world gone prostrate (and then lax) before your heaven.
In the streets of Paris we walked with mouths agape as if in some dream, considered all the bodies tailored, hustled, swarmed into those buildings and their mundane jobs their mundane lives, or is the bread and wine enough to make their streets a dream for them, too? But of course I’m swayed by Émile Zola’s tale, the alley of Pont Neuf, a suffocating sympathy for Mlle. Raquin.
And then there are the things we’ve put into the future: how we wait for life to start once such and such has happened, some Life/Career Exam that’s either make-believe or silent (the same things). It never speaks Arrival.
So you shepherds, here are these bodies, these brains with their vignettes motives beats and fatal blessings, nowWhether the molecular manifestations of some need, disease, abuse, or holy will, they are a middle finger to your herding, your safe-shoring. If only in their waking, eating, waiting out the end they are a panting at the back of you: a cumulative shaking.

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