a city of doors and passages; everything appears to be.
some doorbells are seen and others hidden, like lives.
sudden walls round upwards and tower ocre or orange
over us like Renaissance sun dials, their colours swirled
through stone by Italian emigres.
the Protestant confessional made public vyes for Europe’s soul
with papal gold and its decadent sense of glory rising and rising
far beyond heaven into mystery. We late secular witnesses
are arriving late, post knowledge and hungry for an image of god
made man, or saving that a redemption from our banality or just lunch, which here in Lyon is the mundane, sausage and mustard, hearty flesh and a hint of tart fire washed down with blood red wine.