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prose poetry

quatre-vingts ans ont passé, et plus
la noblesse de la mort encore
il n'y avait jamais un bruit près du bois mais d'un
un stylo d'acier
beaux, tragical visages
j'ai dit, j'ai fermé mon coeur
l'obscurité
a arqué l'inondation
bonne femme
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
il y a bien longtemps, dans le jeune clair de lune
c'est la chanson de la jeunesse
ceux-ci soient

 



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