In the wasted years    
that time scatters    
along the alley of the first trees.        
 
At the forefront of romance    
lucubrated paradisiacal clichés    
water is made of white lead.        
 
My skirt is lace    
life lifts her up    
of her sensual lips.        
 
A happiness of feigned commiserations    
étale vertueusement    
the unrolling of the gray ribbons of the mind.        
 
There will be bread in the bowl    
dogs can come    
comme irruption sauvage sur le chemin en balcon.        
 
We, moonrise companions    
sporting the trinkets of the very low    
sums of ice to know too much to know.        
 
serve the world    
sweet squash juice    
takes desire in its detours.        
 
Coarse ointment     
at the dawn of hermetic portals    
leads to abandoned closed rooms.              
 
At the crossroads    
just occasional lighting    
at the circus the morning candles.        
 
Eat fiddlehead bracken    
rare wandering without forfeiture    
when the storks pass.        
 
Don't be alone     
in this dark tunnel of the return to the mother    
mon amour vertigo désopile.        
 
Sit peaceful    
doomed to sparkles    
the equinox gaze.        
 
Disjoint whispers    
between the seven rays that Victory inflicts    
au Grand Être immobile.        
 
There is a tenacious faith    
that the clichés discover    
to oblivion.        
 
Oh my little abandoned things    
don't hold back from me    
what's next.        
 
I was young sometimes.        
 
 
661

Menu bursts of voice    
to say that we are alive    
and what does his own life matter    
if the entrechat is present    
dance above a bed of narcissus    
in the spring of a snack with the beautiful    
detachment of the mind    
in osmosis with the meeting    
with what is there    
to self elevation.         
 
For the sake of being true    
without the worry of having to show it    
on a gentle ascent    
this curious life    
headless    
if not the duty to reflect    
the lack and the quest    
without appearing    
the opposite shore
in the silence of no regret.
 
660

I wasn't willing to leave these tracks in the sand    
juniper needles stung the palm       
childhood darted its eyes towards the Plomb du Cantal    
as long as the tender hand rested on his shoulder.        
 
The heads of the thistles had been torn off    
the little shepherd was running behind the herd which had caught the fly    
the sheaves were heavy on the big mulch    
l'arc - on - sky lifted a discreet smile behind the embankment.        
 
I held the stick tight    
to bring the cows up from the drinking trough    
write signs on the bare earth    
and make it whistle in the air.    
 
Grandmother was fleeing her cancer    
going out in the cold    
greedy her man    
to make the little one work too much.        
 
The rooster before being bled properly    
flapped its wings vigorously   
and a few drops of blood off the bowl    
ignited the pebbles of the stable.        
 
Yelling wasn't my forte    
the pranks did not take place    
to be whipped by the locker was my due    
according to the cold shower of this end of summer.        
 
Small Pine Bark Boats    
sailed on the puddle of the road    
the wind beat the shutters against the black stone      
there were many spirits in this place.               
 
The lentil dish    
was unloading its pebbles    
by the fireplace    
where the kitchen towels were drying.        
 
Put on his clogs    
and four by four climb the sound staircase    
to the rat room    
full of the smell of salt pork.        
 
The wind was agonizing 
on rushing through the trapilloux of the attic       
Pierrot was going to leave for Indochina    
towards this jungle a thousand times evoked    
on the linoleum of our Parisian bedroom 
my sister and me.        
 
 
659
 

Harmonic hourglass
in the condominium of tomorrow's actions
underhanded transfer of power
there is no temptation of the spirit
than taking the risk of meaning to come.
 
On the terrace
to the wind that goes
to the thoughts that reverberate
fireflies dance
passers-by without reflection.
 
On the front padlocked with light
on the behind frightened by the rural mass
there is no sweet truce
turning the pages of a picture book
than the mockery of laughing words.
 
Drunk with remonstrances
at the mercy of what they say
eagle feather planted in the face
the carnivorous redness of our alabaster cheeks
plays with the conglomeration of traces of life.
 
Enter the large salt room
things we keep
take care of echo sound
fly to the bedside of the odds and ends of hope
everything is blissfully self.
 
The moaning call of the choregies
the dying rise of the requiems
the punctuated knocking of the steeple of our childhood
at the water lily weir of a silence
the muse is there whistling her lemonade.
 
The starlings will pass in frightened troops
the prey and the shade will rise to the pinnacles
mysterious eyes of the eternal sphinx
self-darting
les menus debris worries us.
 
let's not get married
let's be left and right
of the sword of praise
for dead ends and trinkets
let's keep the enchantment simple.
 
 
658

Téké of the rock farmhouse        
on the dry scrubland    
the oscillating caress of lavender    
accompany the falling day.        
 
On the boss's lap    
Obiwan the dog    
make it beautiful    
mouth open and tongue hanging out.        
 
Passing by there    
rebellious hair      
and the wild eye    
bode well for a beautiful autumn.        
 
fall of the chestnuts    
on the basalt slab    
bugs busted and dust thrown up
the children get carried away.        
 
In the hollow of the sofa    
deaf to outraged cries    
you examine and accredit    
the complicity of frank exchanges.         
 
The cheeky accordion    
raises joy and romance    
near the tom-tom at the entrance    
what does joe keep.        
 
And the steel on the flat of the foot    
the sawdust gnaws at the pockets    
cracked sweat    
wide-brimmed hat.        
 
From our hands    
waved handkerchief    
worldwide    
welcome the setting sun.        
 
there is no money    
than grandma's chin    
starry gold dust    
sprinkle on the low wall.        
 
Bite the sausage    
in its brown mustard    
chat in rhythm    
shirt open and classy at the corner of the lips.               

let him come back    
be the beacon of labors and days    
on the edge of happiness    
at the appointed time.        
 
Balance balance    
the chair of the four seasons    
on the painted wooden terrace    
to the sound of great spotted woodpeckers.        
 
Laugh lords of the plain    
from the frizzy of their laughter    
the smell of crushed walnuts is exhaled 
on a bastringue tune.        
 
Téké is happy   
real handyman   
in this luminous adventure   
to the rhizomes of simple things.
 
 
 
657
 

full face    
and snow flea    
met at the monastery  
it was on earth    
when the absolute monad    
went back in time.        
 
At the thrill of midnight    
the switch took place    
deep gash    
on the timeline of the years    
where to mount the bag of wheat    
stompers scraping the worn plank.        
 
don't laugh    
of this poor puppeteer    
to pull the threads of memory    
under the sky of human relations    
her song is honey    
under the Luberon in spring.        
 
such nursery rhyme    
snapping his limbs    
opens the path of the oaks    
by thought and sainfoin    
towards the fragrant hay    
crisp foliage.           
 
 
656

It escapes me and escapes me 
this last shadow    
collapse of evidence    
on any subject chosen.        
 
It suits me to be weary     
at the sunset of the mind    
with hissing creeks    
of an old ocean.        
 
And I have nothing    
nothing but the cry of my dear    
under the arbor    
to breathe at night.        
 
Fusion of time    
with curved trees    
shrouded in mist    
in the hollow of the gray waves.        
 
To love with an eternal hickey    
the wick of life    
that the cicadas sing    
with incredible stridency.        
 
If I have to hold    
if only a shroud    
at the temple gate    
take me Lord.        
 
void of smiles    
to the winds offered    
the silence of the alley of beech trees    
reflects the last poem.        
 
From the infinity of a trailing sky        
become the vernacular leak    
spinning out of breath    
on the slope of metaphors.        
 
Voices in the distance    
in this storm    
where the lean horse dies    
returning from mission.        
 
Return without praise    
to the First Source    
ring the bells    
handmade galoshes.        
 
Turning over of officiants    
to their mysterious caches    
in the watery mountain    
cean memories.        
 
 
655

father and mother together    
walked in abundance of memories    
when    
surprised in their frolics of spelled tenderness    
they enjoined me to take up the gauntlet    
with the friends of the Meeting.        
 
Hold that momentum    
be the wick without flinching    
for more gratitude    
in this minor life    
gingham checks    
cutting out with a chisel from the work contained.        
 
Only a free thrill    
époumone this work on oneself    
that the old form accompanies    
in the summer evening the detention    
at the subject source    
of our love contract.        
 
Don't sign out    
in the litigation of vain things    
stand in solidarity with major lives    
able to span the evolutionary fault line    
able to densify the reign of beauty    
to the semaphore of the principled wisdoms.        
 
 
655
 
 

The swallow landed    
and the thread unwound    
his munificence at the bottom of the windfalls.       
 
The swallow itself round and beautiful    
all wings spread    
to cross the line.        
 
The swallow huddled under the awning    
haversack laid there    
successful storm.        
 
Strongly inclined to sparkle   
the swallow allowed itself asymptomatic flight    
at the passage of the Unique.        
 
Exhausting his ration of thick meat    
the mastiff turned to the fire    
contiguous time and mind.        

Under the dryness of words    
we should have correlated     
the swallow's message    
who signs his flight of verbal outrages    
with the famous high cedar 
casually interpreting
the cry of the groundhog
to a musette waltz tune.        
 
 
 
654

tow life    
bonded moments    
in passing time.        
 
Carding the wool    
refocuses in fiber    
water and light.     
 
Fluescence of memories    
by moving seaweed    
parvient the crumpled breath of the beach.        
 
Greasy coat    
sea ​​ponies    
their hooves rattle.        
 
Spread    
dripping snakes        
arborescent grimoires.        
 
At the weaving everything starts again    
wires overlap    
cross stitch flashes.        
 
Clear the plant    
of its earthy gangue    
exalte l'offrande à la vie.        
 
Of between the dendrites    
the bottom of the universe is hollow    
to disturbing black holes.        
 
By the apple tree    
the bees are screwing up    
the tender love of simple things.        
 
 
653