for François Villon

there are things one never forgets, oh dissemblers— 
cat's paws of darkness over closed eyelids 
the brief clear gaping of the bullet's cough 
car headlamps slitting the night to ribbons 
painted white masks of the buffoon and the whore 
the hangman's laughter like a dose of strychnine 
the flesh-colored flame 
that cannot scorch the satin purse 
black rooks on red haystacks 
a dwarf with a whistle on the elephant's back 
the tower filled years since with whispering fire 
the green swollen booming of the sea 
the long broken downhill shuffle of old age 
braking till it's worn to the knees— 
these, the inalienable souvenirs 
the heart's tiny mirrors lugged the length of the journey 
 
we all walk that road 
of life on its way to death— 
murderers, burglars, drug addicts and firebugs 
thugs, embezzlers, rapists 
and fellow terrorists— 
you like me tattooed in lineament and skin 
single in our destiny— 
till we climb through the gap 
into the kitchen pantry 
and the earth munches us to the bone 
"finished; dispatched; cracked; home" 

go well, friends, by the light of the body 
go well, marked by what's never forgotten 
to the final prison where all memory goes dark 
 
hamba kahle!