Rue des Martyrs

I am inhabited by a city.
An inscrutable cry of many crimes
committed to no one’s memory, these

arteries traffic in the reticent
art of thievery. Taut telephone wires
taught from birth not to hiss unless caught by

coppers of knots clogging up their highway’s
escape route out of my body. Catching
up at the safe-house of my heart whose walls

harbour fugitive puddles corpuscles
carry off into breath. Baiting my soul
with the pearly prayers of a complacent

citizenry my blood tricks my lips to
tell. Bury in the blurring of warm tears
what sin’s relics these confessions translate

too well, transmuting, as if miracles
were the golden cargo this cartel’s mules
were attempting to sell, pieces of hell

I have been through filling stalls parked along
the Rue des Martyrs you travel at which
you stop and browse in your false pilgrimage.