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angel poem

son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
les voûtes du pont rouge
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
peut-être
je vous attends
levé des morts
et avec l'oiseau de ronflement
faites les garçons et les filles vont toujours
simplement parlant
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant

 



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