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funeral poem

dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
comme égaliser tombe
bien que repine d'amour, et frottement de raison
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
la dame, votre coeur s'est tournée vers la poussière
nous cassons le verre dont le vin sacré
un dieu
oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires
effrayé pas plus, je dis
sous la lune de moisson
à certains les gros dieux
en tant qu'elle
fleurs des bébés
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée

 



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