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mother poem

exprimons nos passions plus basses
allés sont les trois, ces soeurs rares
gloom
pourrions nous mais savoir
pour pouvoir voir chaque côté de chaque question
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
je suis vieux et aveugle
plantons
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
l'enfant qui a jeté la feuille après feuille
dossier une nuit de vol
ombres étendues le long de broadway

 



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