The Algerian flower-seller beaten,
petals strewn on the French street -
always there is beauty to mark the blood in Paris.

She� arrives at Gare du Nord on her way
somewhere else.
Before her next train, she sits
among the people in the Luxembourg gardens
in the shadow of the trees and Flaubert's bust,
eating a peach on a bench, slowly making
the afternoon hers.

She washes her hands and mouth, the hollow
of her throat and, on impulse, pours
the rest of the water over her feet.
A man comes running toward her
to make all the stories come true
and, looming, bends down.

With cool hands, he takes
the bottom of her foot and kisses
her ankle, the whole city pausing
for an instant.� Then he runs away again
between the people, the gates, the trees.