Poetry rears the words  
 Elle  
 The multicolored skein  
 Torn by its own enigma  
 She blooms and is silent  
 She waves  
 Foam rolls   
 Elle s'amuse ruse abuse  
 She fuses  
 She ricochets  
 She sneers  
 she laughs yellow  
 Without denying oneself  
 She opens  
 She offers  
 She cannot submit to the established order 
 She's fooling around  
 She encarte by her fragility  
 The chiaroscuro of thuriferous glances  
 His organization is relentless  
 She is freedom  
 She spots  
 She punctuates  
 She squats in front of the toddler  
 She levitates beyond propriety  
 It cannot be satisfied with the curvature of time  
 She's falling off the ladder  
 The eternity of beginnings  
 She crowns the street child with a papal miter  
 At full throttle she laughs at the nuances  
 It contains the trolls and the leprechauns   
 She erects Calvaries with a caress of a feather  
 She embodies half-words  
 The daily mishmash  
 She is a flame sprung from the rustle of crepe  
 She is quiet  
 And then  
 Was  
 Backlog  
 She is ant  
 To make reality miserable  
 She is cicada  
 By its ability to marvel  
 From the worries of tomorrow  
 In high winds  
 Loose hair  
 It is sandy track by the sea  
 Sur un vélo bringuebalant  
 It is built along the way  
 Wandering to be  
 Elle 
 L'herbe folle des no man's land 
 The acclaim of the bud in spring  
 Along the road  
 It collects waste  
 It recycles plastics  
 Of the guttural roar of its pipes   
 Elle orgue le cervidé aux bois du Roy  
 she is music  
 And if the night surprises her  
 She becomes a glowworm in the eggshell   
 It culminates in end-of-life suspension points   
 It thins out the lump of regrets  
 Elle 
 Qui de fleurs vêtue  
 Cluttered the attics with his emotions  
 Become smile  
 In the light of an ultimate day  
 She cracks and bounces  
 Both look and experience  
 Perched on the master tree  
 To watch for traces of life  
 under the moss  
 She is a squirrel   
 Live and contemplative  
 Facing the pitfall of dry almonds  
 She is a must  
 From before to after  
 Out of safe shade  
 Exposed to scorching drunkenness  
 Visionary cavalcades  
 She is snow in the sun  
 Brown wingspan with giant wings  
 She scratches with an incredible cry  
 Le cristal infernal  
 Ageless melodies  
 She models  
 Of its shrubby caresses  
 The facial features of the ancestress  
 She raises the curtain of sap  
 Over the morning mists.
  
 It is meetings  
 Beneath the kelp brought by the tide  
 Where the smell of decomposition thrives  
 From germ to renewal  
 The clamor of the crowd towards loneliness  
 And the last thing to the mystery.
  
 She was and will be  
 My recognized wife  
 My cantor of evaporated nights  
 Ma distance  
 My failure  
 From between the tripod of the gods  
 To dig the unreason   
 Muted in soul  
 So filed  
 Grown under the shadow of a bloodless sun  
 My brow girdled with the last sweats.
  
 Palme sera la poésie du retour à l'esprit  
 Of my numb fingers  
 I would spread the earth  
 An insect will climb on the nail  
 Agile and restless .  

 It will be in the morning .  


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