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.