plume now scratches the screen at http://aileverte.blogspot.com

incertain.plume
{Thursday, March 18, 2004}
notes éparses


elle pleurait à deux visages

*

Je repartis la chaleur parmi mes os. Il en reste que je mets sous ma paupière gauche, l'aile d'un papillon vert.

*

A poet is perhaps no more than a thief.
His shadow is desire.

*

Sometimes I like to repeat a simple phrase:
"Là, les gens habitent dans une maison."

*

the dark happens

*

Je lève la main: un geste d'allure géologique dont le mouvement ne s'apperçoit que par l'oreille.

*

What happens to our hands, given?

*

Here, there are no mirrors.

There are no walls, either. Only years.

*

Solar anemones remember the path of each rainbow. It is within reach that dawn cracks the walls with ivy patience.

*

Earth holds potatotes and bones.

*

It grows around a question of abandonment, without consolation of reason, perhaps cancer perhaps a pearl.

*

She can tell the level of tides by the penetration of subterranean ridges encircling her eyes.

*

Out of icicles and dirt, she fashioned a secret tool of survival. A safety pin to bridge the order of the absolute waist. Dividing gold into age and tone was a task simpler than swallowing earth. Her womb was filled with mulch. Dry as a volcano, she gave birth to perfumes.

*

Time heals nothing. Incomparable the suicide of memory. The concrete consolation of pavement.
Survival requires the mastery of time. Under opaque horizons the nightingale kills its audience.


plumed @ 8:38 PM | 0 comments

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est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D.





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