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christian poem

mon amour vrai de son oreiller a monté
laissez-nous pitié ceux outre dont soyez meilleur que nous sont
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
tressé et tissé
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
vous avez marche vue par le village
Ă  minuit
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril
un ciel qui n'a jamais connu le soleil, la lune ou les étoiles
dans votre vol
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé

 



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