rue de varenne

taken back to the secret place,
that corner of Rodin's woods
where statues begin to thin out

or were swallowed by moss,
cooled by an absence of tourists
who never stray from the path

or their first language.

whatever was forged there
is frozen; why dig up the
heartbeat of a distant day,

buried with his ceramic
in the phantom fossil record?
the original still thumps in me.

felt as though left long enough
alone and they'd chain the gates,

lock our fate in some
out of hours embrace -
room for two more here,

you said - already your roots
unfurling around ankles
into the discovered earth,

Balzac bodies burning,
busy like new bronze.

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