Eiffel Tower


It was hard to believe—as we craned to look
at one thousand feet plus of pig-iron shaped
like a Watusi A with yellow double-decker
elevators, a restaurant named after
Jules Verne, mantis neck that never sways more
than four inches, ten thousand tons of kisses
in closing—that Verlaine would go to any length
to avoid it, that another heard sheep bleating
at the thought of it, that a journalist cycled it,
and that the tailor Reisfeldt died of a heart
attack before he hit the ground after
jumping from its parapet with a cape for wings.