Wandering without a map in the City of the Dead,
entombment of Delacroix, Chopin, and Jim Morrison,
of Gertrude Stein and Marcel Proust, I find the grave
of Oscar Wilde gaudy with lipstick, and a placard
warning against defacement -- ignored;
the young, their souls thick with longing,
have yielded to temptation in order to be rid of it,
and failed, as they will do and will do even as the old.
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| Scenes in the Cimetiére du Pére LaChaise, Paris. |
