You lean against the poplar, against its upright
rustling. The river flows peacefully past you,
complete in itself, like a swimming prayer.
A name is scratched on its trunk. Perhaps
it touches an annual ring beneath the bark
or some other way in which we think ourselves
into reality with a metaphor.
That famous smile is also registered
in poplar wood, thin and complete in itself.
When that smile was stolen, lots of visitors
crowded into the Louvre to see its empty
space. On the water the reflection of the poplar.
You find it difficult to say where you’re staying.