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suicide poem

ombres à ailes balayant près
mon âme est un champ labouré foncé
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
il y a des gains pour toutes nos pertes
il y avait de trois dans le pré par le ruisseau
si le tueur rouge pensent il massacre
pour puis en dehors
le pré rampait
le soleil est vers le haut
elle a un espace libre, loveliness vent-abrité

 



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