PARÍS, OCTOBER 1936

From all this I´m the only one who parts.
From this bench I´m off, from my breeches,
from my great situation, from my acts,
from my number split part to part,
from all this I´m the only one who parts.

From the Champs Élysées or as strange
little Moon Street turns around,
my defunction´s off, my cradle parts,
and surrounded by people, alone, loose,
my human resemblance turns around
sending out its shadows one by one.

And I remove from everything, for every
thing remains to make my alibi:
my shoe, its buttonhole, likewise its mud-
even the double in the elbow
of my own shirt buttoned up.