Less Time

 Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account
of everything, there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous
as my fingers and some others; I've distributed some pamphelts to the plants, but not all
were willing to accpet them. I've kept company with music for a second only and now I no
longer know what to think of suicide, for if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is
on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the re-entrance is on the other. You
see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a reasonable account of them;
I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no one passes
(underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same.
May I introduce Madam Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps
turn back too, but I don't know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the
names of the towns have been replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to
me. Shall I go to A, return to B, change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I
don't miss the connection with boredom! There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah!
how beautiful the parallels are under God's perpendicular.

Form: Prose Poetry

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