Oh how beautiful
it was in Ostend
in that little hotel
in the rain.

I couldn’t be reached
that gentleman the manageress said
ah ne connais pas
no he has left already
I’m so sorry Madame
c’est rien Madame she said,
telephonically
to my love.

As for me I was hanging around
in the station concourse
hiding behind the evening editions
and leering at the English schoolgirls
with their little knapsacks
taking on the colour
of the wall I leant against

or at night
in my sand-coloured mackintosh
lying deadbeat on the beach
waving at the little lights
of the boat for Dover.

What a pity sir
I thought you’d already left
we never saw you
not even at breakfast
please accept
our sincere apologies
Madame will certainly be cross and
the weather has been dreadful this summer.

Invisible I thought
I’m invisible
and in a lethal gust of joy I merged
with the flowery tub chair in the corridor
with the ashen cobblestones in the church square
with the racing cyclists that rainy Sunday
with the seashell doll in the souvenir shop

and with my sweetheart
who so as not to be on the safe side
arrived after all.