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