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Paris October 1936

by
 From all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From this bench I go away, from my pants, from my great situation, from my actions, from my number split side to side, from all of this I am the only one who leaves.
From the Champs Elysées or as the strange alley of the Moon makes a turn, my death goes away, my cradle leaves, and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose, my human resemblance turns around and dispatches its shadows one by one.
And I move away from everything, since everything remains to create my alibi: my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mud and even the bend in the elbow of my own buttoned shirt.

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