I typed your name in the narrow void

And hit return : you actually had several

Aliases, and none looked like you,

None stood next to some plane as if

« en route » towards the next postal fort,

None faced the camera with a similar

Expression of glee.

It is somewhat odd to find so many entries

For someone born before indexing ate

The sensible world. When asked

Whether things may repeat themselves

In such specific order, I would answer

With pages after pages of dead poetry,

And the occasional picture of myself

In a tight red hood.

Children were dressed like this in the

Seventies before the search box opened

For almost everything to escape but you.