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birthday poetry

aucune proie ne suis moi des pensées faibles
un stylo d'acier
je me suis tenu
une petite pêche dans le verger s'est développée
parmi la fumée et le brouillard d'un après-midi de décembre
le long des banques
musing, entre le coucher du soleil et l'obscurité
pourquoi puis, la nécessité nous voient?
les longs couloirs de marbre resounding
dernier minuit
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
le corps peut confiner

 



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