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writing poetry

souffleur de verre de temps
vous faites entendre
quand j'étais a enfoncé à Londres
je suis vieux et aveugle
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
puisque j'ai senti le sens de la mort
course haut-soutenue
qui appellera le vent
cette année
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
allé avant nous
un mot de vol d'ici et lĂ 
tous apaisent le long du potomac
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas

 



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