was just like not being there.

Celine was gone.

there was nobody there.

Paris was a bite of bluegrey air,
the women rushed by as if you would never
DARE to go to bed with

there were no armies around.

everybody was rich.
there were no poor in view.
there were no old in view.

to sit at a table in a cafe
would get you careful stares from the other
who were certain that they were
more important than
food was too expensive to eat.
a bottle of wine would cost you
your left hand.

Celine was gone.

the fat men smoked cigars and became
glorified puffs of smoke.
the thin men sat very straight and spoke
only to each other.
the waiters had big feet and were sure
that they were more important than
anything or

Celine was gone.

and Picasso was dying.

Paris was absolutely nothing.

I did see a dog that looked like a
white wolf.

I don’t remember leaving

but I must have been

it was somewhat like leaving
a fashion magazine in a
train station.