Only in Paris

After a long day working in the high rise suburbs, I limped up in my impractical shoes to the only available seat on the metro platform to await my third train.

There, abandoned on the shiny blue plastic, torn away from its companions, were pages 63 to 74 of a collection of poetry.

Page 64:



My body reclining like a blade of grass
Thinks that the day lasts
The law of these effects is infinite
I find myself again in the creases of my eyes
Breaking the illusions
Dissipated in writing

"You know, don't you, these days that go by without anything happening."


Mon corps allongé comme une herbe
Pense que le jour dure
La loi de ces effets est infinie
Je me retrouve dans les plissures de mes yeux
Cassant la figure des illusions
Dissipés en écriture

"Tu sais, toi,
Ces journées qui passe sans que rien n'arrive."




Now by the time you read that three or four times, I just bet your train comes in.