It's Poems

Where is Ouvert?

He has climbed into the Room of Ones Own, which was lying on the floor next to Gaius's foot.

He wriggles his way to the bottom.

There he sees Baby Pierre, wrapped up in wet paper.

What are you doing here? demands Ouvert.

Where? asks Baby Pierre. I don't know where I am.

Never mind where, says Ouvert. This used to be my bag. And you're in it. And that used to be my book. And you're wrapped in a page of it.

Hah! says Baby Pierre, outraged. It's my bag and my book!

Then you must be Baby Pierre! says Ouvert. Wow! Hello!

Yes I am, says Baby Pierre. And I know who you are. Hello, Ouvert.

Yes, yes, hello, says Ouvert, somewhat tongue-tied.

He gets a hold of himself.

Do you like reading? says Ouvert. I do. Would you like to borrow my book? I see yours is wet.

Thank you, says Baby Pierre. What is your book?

Illuminations, says Ouvert.

By Arthur Rimbaud? says Baby Pierre.

That's the one, says Ouvert. Frankly I find it a bit disappointing. But you might like it. It's poems.

Poems! says Baby Pierre. I don't generally like poems.

So, no, then, says Ouvert.

I might take a look, says Baby Pierre. Although I prefer philosophy. Where is your book?

Damn! says Ouvert. I left it behind!