Picture Gainsbourg à lit sans lunettes having
smoked a last cigarette
or cool in his caleçon drinking wine
a bony finger raised to mortality
some warm, dim evening terrified
when it hits. They lie in rows so neatly,
the dead, tamed with paths and
and straight gold lettering,
so still in their beds of sediment.
Not even the rain running on their
can hope to find them
and stir the stillness.
There are thick veins of lime
in the undreaming earth and heavy, heavy plates
unmoved by rumours of some greater thing.
There’s just the body pumping
its bony legs up that sweet hill
and then the precipice.