Paris, October 1936


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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Paris, October 1936