A late afternoon, snow is falling.
Near the striking Musee d'Orsay you see
a grey bundle on the edge of the sidewalk:
a bum rolled up into a ball (or a refugee
from some country plunged in civil war)
still lying on a plaid, wrapped in a blanket,
a salvaged sleeping bag and a right to live.
Yesterday he also had a radio switched on.
Today freezing coins are laid out on the newspaper
in constellations of non-existent planets and moons.
For the next poem in this sequence, click here.