b.z. niditch | going underground


In a pea jacket
when snow scatters
in Paris’ morning
a chill descends
leaving your bicycle
strangers pass you by
this way you are alive
to reach the station
after the demonstrations
loosed on the metro to die
here in 1968
and go underground again,
thinking only of Proust’s
quotations about life,
from our departures
fearing capture
by the cops
to be carried over
pulling out all stops
braced by time zones
of half muted towns
and black on white signs
interruptions butt in
wishing to lay back in bed
or be a year younger
when signs,visions,rumors
open up by the bars
already deodorized
decoded in absentia
almost supremely human
political dimentia,
with every hound
after every sound
pushing my way out
of jammed train stations
to cross the lowest level
of the underground.

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