Paris sleeps. Her naked body,
all soft lines and faint curves,
is captive to the sheets.
Where restlessness ****** her limbs
only moments ago, now
she knows the happy side of rest.

I wish this had been a different
morning--any other morning.
The freckles on her face
deserve to be counted,
to be hoarded away.
Who needs diamonds
when you have Parisian constellations
on an alabaster canvas?

She makes sleep look like
a Monet, all the brushstrokes
of her breath and the roots
of her blonde-dyed hair,
every dot of color placed with
a Deity's unshakable hand.