I am the only one who’s leaving everything behind:
I am going away from this bench,
away from my underwear,
away from the general set-up, from my actions,
from my house number shattered into pieces—
away from everything, and I’m the only one who’s leaving.
Going away from the Champs Elysees
to take a turn in a strange alley on the moon.
My own death is going, too; my bed is taking leave;
and, surrounded by people, solitary, free,
my human double goes for a walk
and gets rid of its ghosts one by one.
I can withdraw from everything
because everything remains behind to give me an alibi:
my shoe, its buttonholes, also its mud,
right up to the crease in the arm of my clean buttoned shirt.