I. Here

The pigeons are désinvoltes like, I guess, the old slum shacks
    of the Carrouselwere once dis-involvēbáńtur,

their ramshackle awnings unwrapped, packed off, their
vendors
    sent north of this palais wall.

Expelled I guess, like these pigeons, casual, expelling mid-air:
    piss-shit combos let fall,

land and dribble, bake and harden on the rock-hard foreheads
    of Murat, Molière and Voltaire.



II. Pretty

but mad, Mademoiselle Autre had fashioned
    her accordion from a rock des Causses;

a block she'd found and forced from its hole
    in the wall of Philippe Auguste;

a stone she'd chipped and chiselled and faceted
    with twenty-six keys and pallets;
...