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christian poem

dans votre vol
pour vêtir la pensée ardente
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
écoutez
vous ĂŞtes clair
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
je ne puis pas vous dire maintenant
ville qui n'est pas une ville
quand, plein de l'amour chaud et désireux
le corps peut confiner

 



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