On the forecourts of French libraries from Reignac to Marseilles
the rain rattles small cars, clouds drape over backseats
I am a photograph in your satchel, between a paperback and cigarettes
I am the dead bird on the gravel, neck snapped from last night's Northwesterly
But no peace, no closure
But no peace, no closure
Beside these roads that halt like jetties, beneath circling murders are leafless trees
Drowning at the knees