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concrete poetry

la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
prenez mes bracelets
pourquoi faites-vous toujours stand tremblant là
à certains les gros dieux
bonheur
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
doux comme lit dans la terre
dernier minuit
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
frère, je suis le feu
splendor doux
ils peuvent parler de l'amour dans une petite maison
je l'aime

 



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