It suits
to fear his origins
for
trimming memory
to pose
legitimate beauty
with a pure word.      
 
The Ground of Dried Blood
accumulate the fragments of waiting
from here
of the
transparency
in the passage of birds
herbs and water mixed.      
 
So what does it matter
the wandering of things said
that tarnishes
the life of the world.      
 
Nobody knows    
nor the painter of bites   
nor the sand of the sea   
close the child's fontanelle.      
 
speak by ear
the void of stones
enchants the laughter of tits
like at home.      
 
resounds
the dried sheet flapping in the wind
like talking about nothing
under the canopy of emptiness.      
 
A blackbird sings
next note
a thought comes
I kick in touch.      
 
( work by Pascale GERARD )

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