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christian poem

un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
je me tiens par temps gris froid
le soleil est vers le haut
ombres étendues le long de broadway
j'aime mon heure de vent et de lumière
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
qui appellera le vent
ainsi tombé
peut-être ce n'est aucune matière que vous êtes morte
vous entendez la pluie?
et mon nom est véridique
levé des morts
à travers He va


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