Cobbles Bneath the Paris Tarmac

I can't look long at this,

this batch, don't dare,

I'd want to drop upon my knees,

to brush away the urban dust,

to touch the crust,

to kneel and kiss the cobbles,

curved and thick like loaves

left out to cool on trays, and here exposed

beneath the cake of tarmac,

scored and scorched and split

 

 by traffic baking Paris black,

 this oven oozing oily heat.

 I'd want to touch them,

hear the horses' broken hooves

clip those cracked streets,

the naked feet of children, 

their thin arms clutching sacks of bread,

the city's flesh and blood.

 

I'd want to taste

the crumbs cooked in the waste

of soil between each stone,

I'd want to feel the old unknown,

to breathe the past,

                        I know I'd kneel, I would.