Yell :
 "Go the fight to the go" at "Champagne" ,
 this dog that no one had educated
 to knock down the cows
 where they had to graze . 

 It was raining .

 Immobile ,
 sitting on a flat stone ,
 wrapped in rubber cape ,
 with every raindrop hitting the hood ,
 were responding to fine drips of water .
 I felt the mystery of being " was " ;
 what I will name later
 " the heart of passing time " .

 In the roofless shelter ,
 adorned with large blue gray stones ,
 I was the wind ,
 who in bursts ,
 scratched my face .

 I opened and closed my eyes ;
 to discover the full and the untied
 in the half-enclosure of my body .

 I lick the wet around my lips .

 Hands safe ,
 I was all around me ,
 without me touching it .

 I knew that Grandfather would come and get me
 to bring in the cows .

 And yet I wasn't expecting it .

 I looked elsewhere .

 I had no time .

 I was learning not to want this to happen .

 And that Grandfather emerges !
 It was good . 


 204 

 Last stones ,
 childhood butterflies ,
 the leafless branches of the ash tree
 will no longer raise the dust from the path .

 The ladybug will be freed from the bulb box   
 for sharp grass
 take flight ,
 its black wings under the red chitin with black dots
 rustling against my cheek .

 At the end of the stick ,
 lift dry dung
 and discover worms and insects
 in their work of decomposition
 with for king ,
 the black beetle .

 Flip the stone ,
 it's seeing the dark enclosure
 from the pressure from within ,
 it's meeting in solitude
 with the eye of the heart .

 There are stones ,
 on the pasture ,
 posed over time .
 It is my freedom
 to place them where I see fit ,
 more just in the path of the horsemen.    


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