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fall poem

dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
dans la sphère
j'ai jeté mon âme à l'air comme un vol de faucon
vous avez marche vue par le village
peut-être
en tant qu'elle
à ce qui une femme la comparera aimée
les jours hypocrites
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
contre la flamme verte de l'aubépine-arbre
les ombres des bateaux

 



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