Amy Soricelli: Elle a l'air de Paris...

She looks for Paris on t-shirts with tiny rhinestone borders; shimmery lights across the blink of her eye;
She touches its rough edges- the streets designed crooked along the sleeves... foreign -seen only in her sleep.
She could squirrel away in the corner of a train seat  -buried strong like a shadow- like a slip of air buried deep in a pocket.
She could curl up under every letter in a book./gather her arms around every sentence.
She could wave up her hand;  maybe he would come -small cloth over his arm like in the movies;
She could sit her head straight back in her seat adjusting her body like a silk scarf.
She could sip small pools of loneliness dipped in light oil - spread across her lap.
She could twirl her feet under herself/ the straight of her stockings clear/ sleek.
She could wrap her arms around her single thoughts like soft bread - wine full in her mouth like words lost in a bubble.
She looks for Paris in street-corner musicians; notes in the air leading her up side streets like smoke signals.
She dances in the street across the bells/the lights of the city like sparkles in her hair.
She looks for Paris in dusty books; in smooth colors hanging along the walls of the sky.
She touches the single lines of day until it blends into her fingertips like paint.

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