black lace of branches etched on a paris sky will i ever know those cobbles beneath my feet will my hand ever touch the flickering girandoles when i was a child i never questioned that one day i'd go to paris of course, of course i'd sail round the world now i sit at the kitchen table 4 a.m., smoking a cigarette & staring out the broken window at the new summer leaves on the tree & i question this i wonder, will i ever will i ever there is much before me i still think i shall