Along the ruined avenues the long gone lie
under the old stones. For ten francs, a map unravels
the crumbling paths which to the late great.
A silent town. A vast, perplexing pause.

The living come, murmuring with fresh flowers, their maps
fluttering like white flags in the slight breeze.
April. Beginning of Spring. Lilies for Oscar,
one red rose for Colette. Remembrance. Do not forget.

Turn left for Seurat, Chopin, Proust, and Gertrude Stein
with nothing more to say. Below the breathing trees
a thousand lost talents dream into dust; decay
into largely familiar names for a stranger's bouquet.

Forever dead. Say these words and let their meaning
dizzy you like the scent of innumerable petals
here in Pere Lachaise. The sad tourists stand
by the graves, reciting the titles of poems, paintings, songs,

things which have brought them here for the afternoon.
We thread our way through the cemetery, misquoting
or humming quietly and almost comforted.
Two young men embrace near Piaf's tomb.