After closing time there is always
a scraping at the orb's hollow rim
electric beneath the window
maybe because that old narcissist the moon
can't take his eyes off himself

then in suspended animation
and susceptible calm
I take a stroll in the Flower District
where all is dubious

When I walk over to the lad with the tower of newspapers
I suddenly fear a future that's not my own

I also harass the quietude
with the dry little rose I did not buy

Passed the old hag's constant pleas
The candles rustled over the little hairs on my arm

The pub beneath the staircase the lot behind the church
leading down into a big dark surprise
where a tiger of paper is still lying coiled
or one of those cadavers splashing around in your load

And so I slip out over the mirror
till I reach the isle where they walk in a circle
like the prisoners they are

I'm a root washed up on inertia's shoals

And even though everyone knows every day will be promised anew
We don't move a matchstick
We don't knit a straw

Translated by Verne Moberg