The flat was in Rue Montmartre as I recall,
a sequence of pictures hung upon a wall
that explained the meaning of time;
photos in black and white of geometric shapes,
unusual shapes that held the eye, disturbed the eye.
I sat in a corner café much concerned,
ran back to find a tenant now installed,
a face I barely recognised at first,
to whom I would explain once and for all,
the meaning of those pictures on the wall.
I failed to make him understand a thing
of how as a totality all exists,
and screamed: ‘Just let me see them one last time’,
ran into the room to find them gone
and in their place instead, but lately hung,
the portrait of a mother holding child.
‘Too late,’ I said. ‘I’ve come here far too late.’
Now in my head I tread forever more,
the dingy inner stair, first up, then down,
in vain, not getting anywhere at all.
The flat was in Rue Montmartre as I recall.