patience is beautiful    
the evening    
like three blades of grass    
by the roadside.        
 
Patience takes no place    
in the pocket she takes refuge    
without a cry    
under the eyebrow of a smile.      
 
She is riding    
of so many years    
she crosses the sources    
informed at the end of the night    
light between heaven and earth    
to silence    
the movements of being.        
 
With a subtle breath    
light breeze    
she is the spirit and the body    
washed and purified    
ready to burn without being consumed    
on earth and in the multiverse    
at the gates of love.        
 
 
611
 

    Hand held out    
to the light    
imploring    
with the scratches of the spirit    
open mouth    
the halo in place.        
 
     herd the sheep    
shepherds    
late    
before the wolves come    
aux bêlements se mêlant    
bells and stampings.     
  
     Go further    
to the hills    
where to meet    
in the evening    
the wanderers of the cause    
la parole entendue.        
 
  
610

From white to black 
at the local cafe    
matricaria point    
St. John's wort point    
on the floor   
a slumped woman    
on his face   
against the counter    
stacked chairs    
pale light    
we err    
clowns of our nights    
against bad weather   
under the gray blanket    
exchanged loves    
stealthily    
straps tying the body    
on the bumpy cart    
dimensioned instincts.        
 
From black to white    
on feet    
disheveled hair    
stroking bare shoulder    
slowly developing clouds    
we walk along the river    
motionless trout    
at the piggy bank of the lark    
misty marquee key    
against the singing oak    
wind of our meeting    
in fragile bloom    
bow and violin    
forced march    
to our consciousness    
in rehabilitation of our ancestors    
wake healing    
welcoming hearth lights     
as a decal of our eternal childhood.        
 
 
609

To the sound of the fife    
rats gather    
by the seaside    
along the rough cliffs  
shroud for the culmination    
community shipping.        
 
Sorry to be from the heap    
some    
small long white black    
left the punitive exodus    
for on the road to the mountain pastures    
join the clarines of childhood.        
 
snap their fingers    
the trip organizers    
without us obeying    
we    
the dowerless    
the hearts of love.        
 
At the Felibrige the sound of promises    
in the future the song of complaints    
stay the wedding march    
towards further conquests    
the beautiful lift    
sheaves of Saint John.        
 
 
 
608

A cru
cooked
the dingoes of the planet tear each other apart
in this march towards destruction
to the musical solstice
to the children's score.
 
sing the romance
in this nurturing nature
fills us with joy
To life, to death
the earth is shaking
and Didine's violin reel us in.
 
Share the cake
the ins and outs
of the quest for meaning
between possession
and chaos
we are entering strange times.
 
The wyvern can frolic in its pond
bombs destroy heritage
children playing in the rubble
the faces offer themselves to the ultimate sun
the prophets ascend to the pulpit
the order will be tired of pretending.
 
 
 
607

They fled    
between the boiler blocks    
taking it there    
the spirits    
who slowly tried to gather    
the scents of the city    
gathered in windy weather    
along the banks of the canal.       
 
There is no look    
carried to the window    
than the dark aspects    
of our vitrified imprints.        
 
Past the brief fluence    
people busy with pleasure    
they set out on the path    
for    
crossed the bridge    
brave the storm    
collusions quickly closed    
without attachments following    
those shadow rebels    
less inclined to shape the earth    
only to carry high the oath of peace.        
 
 
606

Follicles flying in concert    
startled ripples    
sign the accomplishment    
of an offering    
at the bench of the morning fringes.        
 
 
 
605

To the laces of the sky    
reveal the beauty of your eyes    
my child    
my presence    
fingers of fire.        
 
 
604

 

The Cuckoo soliloquy   
by intervals        
the Latécoère plane passes    
then silence    
the beeches    
        with spotted trunks    
                caressed by the leaves    
a fly in the passenger compartment is screwing up    
        and lands on my hand    
a light wind rises    
light and shade under the foliage    
the slanting path on the left ahead    
the path and its ridge of grass in the middle.        
 
Awareness of what lives    
breathing    
the weight of the legs    
        forearms    
        from head to neck    
        from my seat    
this saliva in the mouth.              
 
A butterfly crosses a ray of light    
The sun returns 
accentant the contrasts under the trees.        
 
Calm the mind    
close eyes    
focus on breathing.          
 
After a few moments of stillness    
to be ready to receive what comes    
        which is    
a cool wind on bare skin    
        the caress of angels    
what is around me    
        outside the shapes of objects    
        this empty pregnancy    
        and full    
                of what grabs me    
                of what brings me together.        
 
    I feel my own being    
        and I saw    
                I perceive    
and bathes in what flows 
         in what binds my biological elements 
with the objects listed    
        recorded in memory    
        and occupying the whole field    
while between these objects there is you
        there's me I'm looking for 
        the very mysterious.        
 
My body is open battery     
        he is fitted    
                to see smell hear taste    
what I have already heard seen felt and tasted    
it is confirmed    
and the that is also me    
        a free me    
        who sees hears smells and tastes    
                what is not me.        
 
My hand touches the unknown    
she's not just for me    
my brain guides her    
and its automatisms are reminiscences    
from what I have experienced in my past       
        and that come from from beyond my past
        and which come from the bottom of the ages. 

    Overnight    
while it is day    
a light rain pecks the foliage    
and it gets worse    
I attend the picoti picota concert    
followed by large drops     
on the roof of the vito    
a tractor passes     
it raises the dust   
smells of wet earth rise    
a time without time is established    
the continuous thrill of the beeches    
propel big drops solo 
in a choir with open throats
a drop on a leaf    
it swings smoothly    
then quickly reverts to its live shake    
to her dance in the wind.          
 
 A twig and its leaves speak to me    
in the doorway    
everything moves    
so finely    
everything lives    
the drops hitting the roof    
are spheres of water, air and light    
who feed me    
ear and brain in sympathy    
streaks of water form on the windshield.       
 
I am what I hear    
it's accelerating    
birds are still singing    
in the background of the orchestra    
you consume me    
the cuckoo resumes its cuckoo    
I'm suspended    
I no longer touch the ground    
it slows down    
a slight feeling of freshness seizes me.        
 
Would we all have the same feelings    
I daydream on the sound of the Latécoère plane    
the thousand fingers drumming on the sheet metal    
        penetrate me    
I am the rain the sound of what I write.        
 
The drops are spaced out        
the beeches present    
behind the stone wall    
the dry leaves did not flinch    
in their stillness    
curled up.        
 
The cuckoo far away    
the songs of birds    
take over the drops of water    
silence returns    
the breath is there.        
 
a symphony    
I live a symphony    
i am the symphony    
off the sounds.        
 
A fly is screwing up.        
 
 
 
603

One evening a train    
en fin de ligne    
sur la passerelle un corps nu    
et des feuillages tout autour    
les planches étaient disjointes    
et les mains    
mes obligées    
dansaient à doigts légers    
sur la rambarde de bois usé.        
 
Une fois passée    
le cercle de craie   
j'ai soulevé la pensée    
pour que souvenir vienne    
en place    
sans taffetas autour    
juste une ombrelle    
sur un paysage embrumé    
que la beauté plaque au sol.        
 
Une fleur de lys    
marquée du sceau de l'offrande    
attirait force insectes    
des collés à la terre    
et des papillonnés du ciel    
en file indienne    
tenant le sceptre   
tels oiseaux de passage    
à l'aise san parole.        
 
 
602