The summer is not going, it stays like an inflammation on stuffy roads
warm stone, no trace of steps (and yet humidity in the air);
wounds are not healing, the same movement every afternoon – to wiping
the dust from one’s eyes and the oil from hot wheels. October.
Not even return: continuance in crevices – the city doesn’t remember,
nor do you wish to: numb feet, chapped hands, why not admit –
a straight, a passage, from behind the corner surfacing instead of (another) memory, a street. Another one. The same.
And a madman on the platform, completely desolate
(no one is scared of him any more), change at Réaumur-Sébastopol:
on the very top a man is sleeping in his socks,
a bandage sticking out of one, but hardly anyone dares cover their nose.
Behind the window without blinds, someone gets drunk,
quite solitary, behind a window with a blind I change my make-up,
I don’t air the place, I silently implore the telephone,
till finally I fall asleep.
EN 
MK