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def poetry jam

quand la nuit dérive le long des rues de la ville
il y a trois ans d'aujourd'hui
ne soyez pas fâché avec moi
et pendant que nous marchions l'herbe a été faiblement remuée
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
cette année
je suis le vent qui hésite
le ciel
sous un arbre de propagation de châtaigne
comme lui à qui esprit dans la flamme du midi
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse

 



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