I hereby betray
the secret of the hardworking student.
No reeds whispered,
all the rushes kept shtum,
on no wall
was chalk expended on his name
or breath into a telephone.
I betray
what no one wants to hear:
Jaques Devant has been dead a long time.
He has a grave near the Pyrenees,
he was without blame.
I know the circumstances:
the wine-gardens, the church commission,
the roster of sextons.
I call in evidence
an old poncho
and the withered
reproach of the grasses.