Deborah Guzzi

About the Basilica of the Sacred Heart in Paris
soldiers tour in camouflage scanning
the throng for populace out-of-place.
December sightseers profligate then
disperse like overfed pigeons
at the siren’s
sound.

A living statue startled
from trance
propels the crowd further from
faint-hearted fantasy.

There are no terrorists here.

The target has changed;
this century’s fanatics deign to
destroy anonymous power structures—
villains without beating hearts—these
vigilantes seek butchery.

These deranged dogma-dancers:
pour-over, revel-in, wish to taste
gore. They find no glory in
ranged weapons; they count coup.
These solo sons of Abraham
wormed into the chaos of non-existence
where reason cannot reach them;
visions of virgins—their solace,
death—their freedom.

There are no terrorists here, now.

Around the Basilica of the Sacred Heart soldiers
tour in camouflage gear with machine guns.
Today’s flock of dim-seers roam crowded streets
scattering like shards from clay pigeons at the
sound of sirens.