We met, like lovers in movies, on a quay
Beside the Seine. I was reading Foucault
And feeling smart. She called him an assault
On sense, and smiled. She was from Paraguay,
Was reading Saint Ignatius. Naivete
Aroused her, so she guided me to Chartres
And Sacre Coeur, to obscure theatres
For passion plays – she was my exegete.
In Rome (for Paris hadn’t been enough)
We took a room, made love on the worn parquet,
Then strolled to Sant’Ignazio. Strange duet:
Pilgrim and pagan, gazing, as though through
That ceiling’s flatness, toward some epitome
Of hoped-for depth. I swore I saw a dome.