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memorial poem

pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
quand les mer-vents ont percé nos solitudes
le merriment sans fin et idiot des étoiles
pensées par ma tête
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
un oiseau a chanté
dans une vieille chambre s'est doucement allumé
du plancher au plafond
j'aime les vieilles configurations melodious
travails de la terre
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
vous faites entendre

 



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