A man on his way and a canal
where a silent boat drifts past,
opaque, until the sun pours out

languid rhythms to all summer
ends. The surface swallows segments
of town and sky, mirror of clouds,

bubbles on a palate of milk
and tangerine. On a tree lined aisle
between houses a car pulls

over and traffic rustles a kaleidoscope
of papery motions. Feet come out
and hands touch imaginary

keys to sistering thoughts and
oblivion. Heels and elbows
shift onto wires strung together

loosely. Alfred hangs in his skin,
just held up by the remnants of his
voyage to the northern fields.

Flakes drip from cracks in
his face and he adjusts his sullen
coat, tapping into the soundings

of town. One foot in front of the
forward other, behind to go
backward, sideways to go left

or right. Alfred examines life's
possibilities, measureless, but
full of hope, with utmost care,

strolldancing in circles round.
Solving world famine problems or
distributing escargots in jewellike

spoons to the poor further down
the aisle. Going to the Eternal
Festival of Overtures for a sip

of old foreign wine to wash away
a trip long gone or staying here
undecided among circular cryptics.

Under the smell of oncoming rain
and delicate lamb shoes not suited
Alfred gets into the car of a thin

man passing by and decides on a
skinny driver with droplet voice.
Doubtful of the benefits of a

cleansing, he relishes the ride on
strawberry coloured seats, oh soft
leather and protected shoes, and thinks

of the early life of Joseph Georges
Dupont. Curious misdirections,
allotted space and time between

buildings, open the window, only
a little bit. A breeze settling in
Alfred's hair. The beginning of

conversation and then the continuation
of words aller-retour from driver
to passenger and all the way back.

The rain ticks away as Alfred
sees a blackened face pressed in
the shadow of an aisle corner.

A memory vague and still tanned
by the last summer sun. I have a
house here somewhere maybe

there, he says to the thin man
coming to an end. A door in amber
and Alfred's hand on the knob

spinning in vain M and A, D and E,
L and I, N and E, he starts walking
along hollow footsteps and facades

growing into whiter cotton
windows. Wind fills the sails in
their spars and a city in motion

embarks, leaving Alfred to the
lines of have been aisles and water
stained with unrecognisable shadows.