On the forecourts of French libraries from Reignac to Marseilles/the rain rattles small cars, clouds drape over backseats/I am a photograph in your satchel, between a paperback and cigarettes/I am the dead bird on the gravel, neck snapped from last night's Northwesterly/But no peace, no closure/But no peace, no closure/Beside these roads that halt like jetties, beneath circling murders are leafless trees, drowning at the knees; some burnt to the fingertips/And here my tracks sink, end, return as I walked in and out of you/And here my tracks sink, end, return as I walked in and out of you/But no peace, no closure/But no peace, no closure/Driving back through the town/The road map-pinned by Pharmacie signs winking up-road/The cars slice the afternoon with a guillotine slush as it bleeds into a night peppered by stars and planes to Japan/And the changing of gears jilts the cats from the walls/The truth lives with you/The truth lives with you/But no peace, no closure/But no peace, no closure/But no peace, no closure/But no peace, no closure
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