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The children keep disappearing. They vanish, into thin air.

From Little Saint James, Khan Unis or Khartoum,

Tampa, Columbus, Baton Rouge, the children keep disappearing,

Just as they did from the view of Théophile de Viau

And Rétif de la Bretonne, or from the back of a van

Driven by Marc Dutroux through Luxembourg or Belgium;

From Kiev to Dolphin Square, their destiny’s a shallow grave

Near Epping. Hardly missed, they disappear.

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Am I disappearing too? Empty inside my long black raincoat,

Marching again, the invisible man, among the deafening

Drums, the dancing protesters; one of the molesters though,

By and by, on some porn-site owned by a rabbi –

Just as a Jesuit might pimp you a fresh young sinner

From the refectory after dinner back in the days of Louis Seize,

There’s no need to confess my sins since they’re uploaded

Onto the cloud. Is that where the children have gone,

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Uploaded onto a cloud, after having served their virgin

Purpose servicing some billionaire in London or in Washington?

Bump into me so that you know I’m there. So that I know

I’m here. Marching along while the children disappear.

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