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 strangealley of the Moon makes a turn,
my death goes away, my cradle leaves,
and, surrounded by people, alone, cut loose,
my human resemblance turns aroundand dispatches its shadows one by one.

And I move away from everything, since everythingremains to create my alibi:
my shoe, its eyelet, as well as its mudand even the bend in the elbowof my own buttoned shirt.