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.        
 
 
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