We take a leak by the crumbling chapel, the hand that flies our kite
holds our Goldstar bottle, nylon string cuts off the blood flow
to our middle finger and maybe we should have brought more water, been more like flying Jesus, bejesus, quiet like the anise, triple arched and worldly.
Maybe, had we been more like the night, more like the wind that took the kite, Paris would have cupped us and sifted us through her fingers. Nazareth's balcony does.
Here French is spoken and Issam says: I wish you a life that's deeper than broader than it is long. I wish you more sky and hills, a lot of all that.