SKIN CRICKET

The tambourine speaks,
 a tin minuet,
as the young Arabs dance

winding like rugmakers' needles
in the shadow of Notre Dame

 (whose shoulders are wrapped
 in the evening's shawl,
 whose brow is crowned
 with a premature moon.)

Soon the Sun will be underwater
and the great face of the Night
 will start to smile,
as the heat in these high-strung bodies
leads them along like lanterns
 on the cool river.

Where will you take your music then,
quivering cricket of taut skin,
when the headlights cross like comets
on the boulevard's Milky Way?

          copyright 1983, James B. Chevallier