​Le Moulin de la Vierge


In the mill of the virgin, the local patisserie,
lovers wait in line with their loves,
they wait for mille-feuille, the buttery and brittle
thousand sheets with layers of light cream
whipped silly with the scent of raspberry,
for pastry cones and pastry shells
of spun fluff piled on glass shelves in glass cases
so they will not float away, they wait
for chiffon slippers lined with lemon froth
and bowls of macaroon puffs airy as Cupid’s cheeks,

and when the lovers are in love they are in love
with Paris, Paris glazed, Paris powdered,
Paris of flaky cream horns,
Paris of vertiginous confection,
and for the lovers, Paris itself
is pastry, all glazed and gleaming.

From Transversales