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writing poetry

mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
j'ai hérité le désert parce que mon âme est assoiffée
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
il y a une heure du repos paisible
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
dans les halls du sommeil vous avez erré près
la étoile-poussière et lumière vaporeuse
dernier minuit
trois jours je les ai entendus s'affliger quand je m'étends complètement
à partir des prés riches avec du maïs
peu de parc que je traverse

 



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