This is not a chic area of Paris
Outside the night life rumbles
like indigestion. People argue
Outside my window. A motorbike
Roars past. Tyres squeal.
I look at the clock.
It’s a quarter to four.
I’m writing this down in my notebook
In the dark. I hope the writing is
In the morning
I see that I have written this poem
Over the top of another one
And so I begin the task of trying
To decipher my own poems.