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dark poetry

mais je ne puis pas vous lire maintenant
elle a dit
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
le long d'une rive
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
j'aime voler pendant quelque temps loin
l'aube était vert pomme
clair de lune profond et tendre
indéfiniment
j'ai vu les nuages parmi les collines

 



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