I came to the Rue Buttura in Cannes
To write a poem
In solidarity with the Hare Krishna monk
His steady tapping, a heartbeat rhythm,
One pulsating beat per second. Minute by minute
He stood for hours in his yellow and white robe,
A solitary disciple in front of the police barricades,
Drumming his gentle peace mantra.
I came to write my own rhythm,
Trying to make sense of non-sense
Cold steel blockades defacing this town
Of festivals and film, And I wondered—
If they were fencing the adversary out?
Or fencing the adversary in?