god was deserted by his lover.
a voice of vodka and copper
sings a russian song
about her.
outside, mortal souls hunt the yellow cats of absinth
molded onto the city’s pillars of darkness.
the buffalos of vanity
roam the streets.
fog rises
out of their sweaty backs of cubical stone.
had i another seven days
perhaps i would create something.
had he another seven days
perhaps he would write.
but so,
the night before the apocalypse,
we will forget
and we will gamble paris
at the craps table.