The Face

On the bridge
that spans the white
Montmartre cemetery
buried with all
its dead
beneath the snow,
that face
as it went by:
a woman who wept
and bit her nails
walking aimless,
oblivious of the wind
that hiked her skirt
above her knees,
of pedestrians
and cars, from that
moment on has been
haunting your eyes –
whenever you cross
a bridge, you can
almost see it
going by.