She smiles. Even when she cries.
She says she has to be strong.
She says she’s happy, but she lies.
She’s lost in people. She’s wrong.
This “she” became her name now,
This “she” is a picture of her.
But there’s no soul. You ask me how.
It’s dead. A fox with no fur.


This all is more of a portrait
It doesn’t seem to be real
I could’ve given her a trait
And it would probably heal
“It”. I don’t want to say “her”.
I could’ve given “it” a cœur.

But I didn’t, because she’s in black
And in white. A very old picture.
I didn’t mean for lack
Of balance, capacity. Mixture
Of obscure lines is sketched
On a wall with a little warm coal.
And even this wall’s been patched.
Even it lives with no goal.


Maybe she was a cat.
And this is one of her lives.
The 10th. 11th‒a rat.
But now she’s stuck, so she dives
Lower and lower. Enough?
The pressure will ruin her ribs.
It’s ok. This is a tough
Passage through all of her fibs.

And maybe even before
She’ll eat both of her lungs,
Scratched with claws. And what for?
To breathe in the ocean.