En descendant l'escalierwhite marks on the glass nightly posed in address. Excluded from infinity against space vain forms of encounter me font extreme coldness the pebbles of humility stored in the box of secrets. abandoned and sign the route in rainy weather disheveled hair make me angel feathers through the porch endless waiting. Gather my tinsel vêture divine pour cacher ces blessuresI'm rebuffed repressed, pixelated out of transparent water my only mirror. I had done well beautiful weddings were promised my father would pick mushrooms my mother would go around the church my sisters in corsets dressed would be the charm and the cure on our carnival float. Then came the verdict shattered against the glass the five feathers of the angel in reflection marquant l'absorption par le néantonly the bottom of the pans remained to scour for the expected dish d'une l'enfance retrouvée. ( photo by Caroline Nivelon )327
face look call to those who come from the sea raise the capital of ourdied knowledge, to the one who breaks the mirror will give back in their place old music, chilly chords shadow and light, from dawn to dusk, barefoot on wet sand, my soul so soon come, already gone, golden arabesque, I reach out my hand to the wind of expectations, my little man, sweet grassland flower of childhood.
Loose weeding stuck in the lock in the vestibule of expectations sweep away thoughts without permissiveness. long filaments descending from the antlers pendent last verbiage the frills of excess regurgitating childhood moments.
Sabir époumoné against the wall of Thérèse's castles the cries and bumps are gathered at the stake vain pleas.
in a thousand ways ceremonial dress swells before the storm bubbles burst so soon for obsolete protection.
frost point just the novel of secret things in front of eyes burned with Armenian paper where to gird with light late-comer nudity this effort to share the necessary this moment of doubt in the hollow of escheat this embodied journey of writing last.
Clean ripples minuet on the carpet of dreams the organist weighs down his notes dust lifting lace accumulation middle break-in from these places rattling offer of a moment of doubt sitting on the stone bench set back from the arm of the sea. I hesitate and pray in a hybrid way we conjugated the use of words with the passage of time tender scratch offered in derision to the overwhelming experience full and loose between flesh and moss. 325
The shadows are us parents at the extremes children in the middle.
And then molehills a white blue sky an outstretched hand sharp index finger that's where we're going without a shadow of a doubt if not us the image makers on the margins of a je ne sais quoi. wise lines muted colors force from left to right a hallelujah with bare branches of a sweet day .
By measured gradations join beauty and zeal of what grows on the edge of truth of what is there in the meridian moment.
Remove the barrels from the forest clear the space of light for limit crossed leave the tree erase our memories. Advance at dusk close to a night of audacity accustomed grope for the nave of prayers rise in perfection. Loaded with memories on the sunbeam on a vibrant morning count the specks of dust twirling in the half-open shutters.
Gambade piano didgeridoo honey melody witch encounter dance of bygone times elves and trolls mingling with ocean scents spin the wind over the horizon the rain claps animal scrabble churns at night failed orders often the rebellion things so long contained creeping advance between gorse and broom the walls open spin the wind hollowing out space spin the wind chasing seeded bubbles spin the wind in its royal momentum spin the wind terminal rustle spin the wind before the great silence.
Since, silence, commemoration in times of crisis small chip on the cup the light bulb flashes we are at the end of the line I opened the bread drawer cut myself a slice of bread butter and cheese way to pass the pill.
The clock strikes five o'clock the day will appear only in three hours take a book until fatigue comes.
The stove still warm in the dark on which simmers leftover soup a moth wakes up to bump into the bulb.
She had put on her hat curtly and took the door.
On the big table his collages his thirty year life his piled up sufferings a look of a lost doe an eye-popping landscape I crumple it all it wakes up the cat waddling towards his croquettes.
Often seems that the adventure go through the break that we cross without looking back offered to the shivering night ash animated by a breath.
Quickly, close the door the room cools down put a log in the hearth.
