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prose poetry

la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
hors de la mer de scintillement
dernier minuit
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
stand ici par mon côté
comme bougie blanche
sommeil, frère gris de la mort
bien que je sois peu en tant que toutes les petites choses
elle était beaucoup et beaucoup d'il y a une année
dans des nombres mournful
les vérités terribles ceux-ci soient
le soleil est vers le haut
vous entendez la pluie?


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