Little ragamuffin, brat, a craving for sen-sen

as we walked along the Academie;

it is all that interests you.

I remain quiet and my manner annoys you;

I’m present and unaccounted for.

The tunnels are not crowded in this part of the city.

Finally I say I like dogs, possible dogs, worn thin.

We’re in the wrong place, our favorite season.

Ill luck has surfaced again and you do as you please.

I hang on to you around the corner.

There is something lacking even now.

Come, whitewash my fasting worth.

Something living touched me; a plant?

You pretend to recognize old friends.

Why this embarrassed despair, this recoiling?

City of Love—I can’t breathe.

Our own God gave us, gave us the bird.

Goodbye.