Lille

Rijsel, breeding brothel of the fall.

Northern gusts keep the stakes

of twigs and unspoken frustration wet.

Brick dust fills the throbbing throats.

Each night the tireless voyeur descends

from the Boulevard de la Liberté into the mine

of my lust, to Place aux Oignons with its

alley stench from fungus and bandages.

With those who’re fleeing through this decor

set for lechery, memories are coagulated in

the dream, slowly, layer after layer, inwards.

Everything stays closed. Flemish.

Albert Hagenaars

From: Spertijd/Curfew. WEL, Bergen op Zoom, 2000.

Translation: Catherine East