War, The

American Poetry Review, The, Nov/Dec 2006 by Nougé, Paul

I was a whore in Marseilles. My creamy skin stood out against the blue

alleyway that smelled of cellar-damp, cut suddenly by long shards oflight,

a patch of blue sky high as the eye can see where soot-blackened planes

fly slowly past. An end, incomprehensible, end of a town, of an era, an

idea, and into the deaf indifference of marching men I fling insult after

insult after insult.

May 1, 1943