We climbed the steps to
Sacre Coeur past Carousel
and African boys pushing
braided bangles. So steep
the stairs I am undone,
my breath hangs puffs in
white summer air no wonder
at the top are ambulances.
Those in the know ride up
in buses from the Metro.
It’s not till I am inside
drowning in the perfumed
sound of white cowled nuns
singing and being swatted
by ushers hushing tourists
come to gaze and say I’ve been
there to Sacre Coeur
when showing a postcard
back home; that the
gift of gilt and mosaics
and height and light pierces
my heart and for a sweet orison
or two: I believe.
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