Something took form
I listened to a cat scratch of claws
on a tiled roof,
a storm, the cathedral bells.
The death of Rimbaud
by the good people of Marseille
at the Hôpital de la Conception
the taxi driver grudgingly
took my black-eyed cheque home.
Two dozen oysters opened
into breathless mouths
at the type of wedding breakfast
so unfashionable, nowadays.
No-one put their hands to my face
No-one placed a lit cigarette in their mouth
and went back to their book.