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.
