By: David Hutt

Tonight I believed the sky could make music.

Stars, moon, the trickle of the Seine,
I roll myself in a sleeping bag
and listen to the sky sing its dirge for me.

Silence, clouds, the Paris sky is a black canvas
and my love is engraved in padlocks clipped to bridges.
We clipped it there last year

and said it would stay until it rusts.
The sky’s voice is guttural for me now.
I will roll myself to sleep, beside the trickle of the Seine.