Street of Dyers
Coming home early in the morning,
I heard withered cats
behind the sycamores, the canal rushing
from a different century. The alleys
so quiet in this city I never really liked.
The widow with an Hermès scarf tied around her head
walked her ugly-beautiful dogs.
I lived behind a Louis XV door
in a room that imprisoned winter
even as spring was rife outside—
I was not in love, there was nothing to experience.