The silent night full of books all around ~ nevertheless I cough. The cat in its place small children are sleeping ~ tick tock of the alarm clock. I yawn and scratch the skin makes the moon sing ~ sitting I contemplate.
Escalator window weights the out of time is reflected tremors. Ephemeral layer joined thoughts orthogonal order unfurled fragrances list the steps access to the antiphon shouted by the angels strapped refuge crevices of oblivion the chains scrape the ground ad hominem excesses.A song and then nothing just the sweat oxen at work. 347
Friend of the Abyssal Streams leapfrog of life in the heart do you want to become a voice among voices you who are much more than you you who are metamorphosis in the reticular pulp that the hand crushes to become tomorrow.
Let's cross the ford full and loose let's become blood and sense blood horse from the wave to the ocean in the grip of desires that the wind makes acts rootlets of a vernacular painting meeting at the touch of the day that the seeker abjures and rebukes from father to son girl of the times be faithfully ardent on the formant of memory.
edge of words at the underground gates weary scents que le vent portesage renaissance childhood sounds darling presence cherries in spring that the dent croque mittens in pockets of our future under the shade of the plane trees on the cathedral square the bite of the cold atteignant le tréfonds de l'âmegracefully among the grasses a breath on your hand in descent of the sun as in passing. 345
The words that come to us nous font être. They are there, in mouth, ink clad, and plowed closely. However, like the bee this desire to be, in the direction of the wind, closer to the nectar, forces us à pousser la charrue, inexorably, jusqu'au bout du champ, just the words that happened. 344
Voice from between the pebbles taken early a pinch of honey on the breath of the May wind.
Big woman thin-legged posed as an asymptote against the heart in unison. Single presentiment short straws gathered on the sly in the hollow of the weary waves.
guitar arpeggios accompanied by a suspicion emblazoned colors the pavilion of meetings.
Abundant purpurines lips from my friend from the woods raise their voices from among the voices. All sails out towards the quivering of a spring buoyed by the breeze.
If elsewhere and intimate at fingertips come and die The country that resembles you under the consumed spasm Jean my friend of the Spirit my cross my cry. On the ground in the dust the star reflects the mysterious song on the run across the worlds. François my friend of the hoodlums my way my deliverance.
Silence of plants~ on the white blue sidelines of a train that the wind blows.
*
Stuck on a hill the domino of houses ~ devil bugs.
*
Pass the black bird in the scent of the clouds ~ portico at the top.
*
The magpie's nest in reserve rectangular ~ source of spite.
*
Bras serpentiforme ~ snap spring tears out of words.
*
Scaled hands on the span of the balcony ~ the day unfolds.
*
My soul rules dig life and tell me ~ calm and gentle typing.
*
pass left right morning cars ~ boarding for Kythera.
*
On the green coast a yellow truck climbing ~ sudden clamor.
*
Stripping of the tiled roof ~ file the one from elsewhere the short straw.
*
Zinc at the base dirty brick fireplace ~ scheduling.
*
From notebook to book the rubber dries and drifts ~ cold assembly.
*
The refusal of the other is self-hatred ~ together it may be. 341
face face to the touch of our hearts within reach of the ash tree without gesture or word high gaze standby sums On the photos serious and sad to jump from the top of the tree fire hummingbird passacaglia of the mists showing veinlets with one hand to decipher in the evening by candlelight yellowed identity papers that the wind scatters before our sleepless eyes.
O face unique face of passing time dazzled infanta be the receptacle of our tears thesalt of our meeting from stick to thistle from Job to gray to growl in front of the dung mingling with basalt pebbles glowing mixture Virginia creeper and the red wall oh face that a lack of spirit erases flat stone laid in the morning on the garden wall mixed breaths face to face for all eternity.
Are you here glissando without evasion to carry me on the gentle wave moon interview in the parlor bark torn from the cork oak weaving through the slow crowd dazzled passenger fragrant scents. My soul only randomly on an outing saw himself taken in the flood of migrants oh my soul otherness is another identity from the other to oneself the very source of solidarity.
