Philippe Beck, p.3


I know that no one folds. I applaud my friends, they’re part concealed beneath a napkin (not one cloud chases my brain from it, no heart’s concealed in my brain). My heart’s between the newsprint and red robin. So why this “I don’t know you,” same as saying “You aren’t that one,” and so “There’s nothing in the paper?” One gloom bell tolling quick at the face now swollen, taut, then swollen, taut and so on, erratically. The smile goes from check to check: fat pugilist bee.