She gliding   
 of his open eyes   
 caressed the hills and valleys.   

 She washed   
 of her tears the continents   
 to overflow the oceans.   

 She walked on the shards of time   
 sudden collapse   
 from black hole to black hole.   

 She shook the clouds and the tides   
 at the four cardinal points   
 of the holy covenant.   
 
 She caresses the stars   
 in the solar wind of an excess of light   
 without the shadow penetrating it.   

 She is visited by bodies   
 gas rocks and wind   
 to die and be reborn.   

 She refreshes with an ounce of chance   
 the impulses of the first cause   
 very essence of man.   

 She is the wise anchor   
 of the existing and the supernatural   
 dance and passage of a sensible silence.  
 
 She's balls and spins   
 eclipsing itself   
 path to the mysterious end.  
 
 No ear hears it   
 drapery with luminous openwork   
 enshrined in his offering.   

 Land oh my land   
 mother earth is beautiful   
 land oh my land.   


 390

 So small the hands of Mary   
 that the organ emits the song of the birds   
 chirping from between the sails   
 from the rise towards dawn.   

 On the musician donkey   
 I measured with my gaze   
 the distance from me to self   
 a flick of eternity.   

 Of skulls in the sand   
 point   
 obsidian on the other hand   
 complaining about orders left there.  
 
 Black skin and white foam   
 in the window frame   
 smoke rises   
 sweet and annoying.   

 They are beautiful and good   
 songs of being   
 open skins of the children of Emmaus   
 free from anguish and nothingness.  
 
 shadow caress   
 on the grill of the sun   
 of a quest dances love   
 accordingly.   


389

 These hands that look like nothing   
 not even at the wound closing.   

 This doorway crossed   
 to breathe harder.   

 That gaze so distant   
 without lifting the veil   
 there against the shoulder   
 framing sad days   
 contemplating Sylvain's charcoals    
 income afloat   
 court-bouillon nausea   
 memory cockroaches   
 spitting out their droppings   
 to the rhythm of a cigarette. 
  
 The window was open   
 the seagulls circled   
 the wind sucked the marrow from the bones   
 one last time   
 draw water from the well of the Old   
 a noise behind the door   
 I knew he wouldn't come   
 chewed up in the vertigo of oblivion   
 wind in the alleys   
 to gore the devil   
 et s'y mirer   
 soft foam   
 in the silt of fertile days   
 a candle in the front   
 a lantern in the back.  

 
388

   To build   
 so as not to have to become.  
 
 Ignore daily bites   
 for more lightness in elevation.  
 
 Know how to collect the rest of the failures   
 in a process of consciousness.   

 To be the wolf on the edge   
 and pretend to ignore the barbed wire of the Great Plains.   
 Open eyes wide   
 in front of the expansion of the west wind.   

 At dawn parting with the moon evidence   
 to walk towards the light.  
 
 Save the candle   
 without burning the pyre of memories.   

 Sacralize inner myopia   
 in the crumpled linen of nights of withdrawal.   
 
 Know how to turn the wheel   
 to spread the sand.   

 Get up again and again   
 despite the wounds of childhood.   
 
 Become a perforated pearl   
 before the salt eats you.   


 386

 A night of tenderness   
 elk sprayed   
 autumn leaves   
 orchestrate the fallout on earth.  
 
 Noise in the washing machine   
 an inadvertent key   
 left in the pocket   
 an oversight to say the least.   

 At the level   
 sit down   
 and then nothing    
 a ray of sunshine through the louvered shutter.   

 Leaving slowly   
 fluttering in the wind   
 without resentment   
 just a carnation between the teeth.   

 Assert his arrival   
 on the hard stone of the entrance   
 under the window bars   
 Oh Grandmother !   


 387