Fresh from the airport taxi we take the tram up to the Sacre Coeur,
For weeks you held a dog-eared photo in your passport folder
of this place.
There were others, with rich history and lines around the avenue
but, as if heaven bound we found ourselves here.
You'd never know we were at the highest point;
because everything feels vertical with you,
like the whole northern hemisphere ignores the sun
and moves with only your gait.
Time seems to slow down,
The warm wind pushes through the cinnamon flecks of your hair
shoving it in a bushel over over your right eye
as you look back at me with a smile so big
its as if the artist had no choice but to
draw outside of the lines.  
You ask,
so I take a polaroid of you
in front of the massive white domicile.
Behind your structured frame
its ancient hairs stand straight up against a pale grey backdrop
like a dim ghost in the presence of strangers,
or a wild animal behind barbed wire
that continues to pace back and forth,
never quite grasping containment.
I pull the film and allow the silver to disperse
but as the halides converge I
see the salaciousness in your eyes
and realize,
I may never be able to differentiate
between the animal and the artifact
and as you move upward toward the large equestrian doors
I understand
this is why I follow.