He had a face that was in love,

it was already time to admit that he

was in love. In his hands was

a long umbrella and from the windows

the priests were observing him. The little girl

was thinking about her doll, and when

mama took her by the hand, she paid him

no attention. Mama said:

“Should we buy some ham,” and

headed for the shop. He was running,

bouncing and spinning on his axis;

for this reason he kept losing his way.

He was in love, although not one

girl he knew came

to mind; he laughed. He knew

that the weather would be splendid, as long as

this was what he wanted.  And even if

he didn’t care, for some time

it would still be the same. The long umbrella

he waved overhead and put

in the vestibule. The night was deep blue, the day was

green, but the lips of his beloved were red,

like a strawberry; he whistled and walked,

congratulating himself. Yes, his beloved

must be splendid; he wrote his friend

an entire letter about this and inserted it into a magnificent

envelope. His friend would be delighted and send

greetings: a postcard with a little violinist

on a lamp-lit street. 


Nightmares.

Globes.

Of lead.

Their smooth slide to the south.

Where there’s an oasis, a library,

A building with cool darkened rooms,

A person speaking an incomprehensible guttural language,

A woman whose face is formed of twenty overlapping photographs.

With a hollow knock

The globes

Roll across the horizon line,

But that one is rotating

Like a glass door

That’s inscribed:

“Keep moving”.

Most frightening of all

Is the pointlessness

Of everything that’s happening.


What I know of Paris is this 

photograph of the insides

of a coffee cup.

We see here several Argentinians.

They are amiably conversing, paying no

attention to the owner of the establishment

dead for the last fifteen minutes.

Eventually there appears

a long-haired woman with a bag

over her shoulder. She takes from it

the proofs of an article on theatre and magic.

I go up and lead her away

through the emergency exit.

On the square are several pigeons

and policemen. I know

this won’t take long.

I strangle her in one of the cluttered corridors.

Her body falls. Her wondrous hair

covers her face.

All historians in previous lives

had dealings with psychiatry.


The bicyclist is riding a bicycle.

With a patter, the plaster is crumbling.

Wild grapes coil round the balconies.

Old Giuseppe is wheeling a barrow full of tomatoes.

Several paupers suddenly have a cigar apiece.

They light up; dark blue smoke envelops their wrinkled stubble.

The policeman asks: What’s the time?

Anna, bronzed as ever, flirtatiously greets Giuseppe.

Paolo drives up in an automobile, gets out with a bundle of newspapers

in hand, slams the door, blows a kiss to Anna,

greets Giuseppe with a wave of the hand, goes up the stairs

to the house, slams the door.

The paupers again have a cigar apiece.

The policeman is studying his reflection in the greengrocer’s window.

Pushing a cart and praising his wares the ice cream man passes by.

The paupers have formed a circle; on the sly they curse and pull faces.

Giovanni is leading a little girl by the hand, ginger-curled Tina in a straw hat trimmed with bright ribbon.

They have just bought the hat in the little shop round the corner.

The sun is shining, the birds chirping, flying from rooftop to rooftop.

A light breeze ruffles the hem of Anna’s cotton dress.

The policeman asks once again: What time is it?

Anna and the paupers laugh, Tina takes a mirror and begins

To make sun bunnies.

Once again the plaster crumbles.


Joe Dassin
Joe Dassin entered every home,

Danced with every housewife,

Revealed to every tired man

That golden times were still to come,

There, on Elysian Fields.

He’d put on white slacks and white shoes,

A white shirt open at the chest,

Leave the house early in the morning and not return

Until deepest night, and sometimes

Disappear for days on end.

He would sing, and sing, and sing, slowly letting

Everything slide back into place, everything that was ready to collapse

And already beginning to totter. He wrapped beating

Things such as women’s hearts in soft scarves

And kerchiefs. And constantly wiped the dust from

All the gramophones on the planet. In intervals

That were short, too short, he would fly to the Côte

d’Azur and run into the sea, in a leopard-print swimsuit.

And then hastily rub himself dry, finish a cigarette

And with a quick step make for his private jet,

Already repeating, lips kneading the first lines

Which would turn into the flesh of all forgiveness.

And people would turn on their gramophones, televisions,

Radio receivers, and everywhere he was needed.

And even his death no one took for real.

“Sing!” they told him, “Sing!” And he – slow,

curly haired, with sideburns – he drew close

even in non-existence, and implored, implored:

“Put your heart back into place.

Don’t break it.”