Paris, 2am, the Line 5 metro heads to an overnight

siding. A man inside hammers the window, the O

of his mouth. He blames overlong hours at la bourse.

Right now he'd trade his life to return to the dark

he once knew. Unpolluted skies. The farm lost

by taxes. Papa, at the crematorium, saying nothing

leaves this world. Grandpère’s gold teeth removed,

Mamie's rings pocketed. And him striving to find a way

in the world through people's desire for extra-terrestrial

things. Mining, buying, pawning. Even the chocolate

éclairs, they ate at break earlier, were leafed in gold.

He rests his head against the glass, sits back, dreaming

of rescue, being returned to city air, to see the moon

in a streetlamp, share un verre with friends, until sleep

takes him to the Cévennes, and above, a golden eagle.