Our poet fantasises about dying
When there will be rain in Paris
And men in long overcoats walk
Ghost-like about their business
And it is now autumn in leaves.
He would actually land a road,
On strange footpath, on a head
In high-impact steel and stone,
A rainless suburban spring day.
A hard time he has knowing it,
As men in long overcoats walk
Ghostlike about their business.