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.
Deleuze and Guattari: "making love is not just becoming as one, or even two, but becoming as a hundred thousand... we always make love with worlds."
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