by Le Souffle blanc [on parution
Each landscape was like a scene,
material from a place where it could not go out
unscathed, so that if one crashed if wrinkled
too intensely retinas. It was a day
cleared of any experiment, whose width
however, reached some fragile high walls
as instruments that discovered stones
flesh lying on the alcoholic sense of dreams.
Hair wearing abyss by advancing, making
circles around the linden silvering. To forget
that existence is a black hole.
The cry has become a crisis.
Coracins formed in the thickness cracks
diametrical to write the lightness of a confession
that could be heard only by raising
eyelids. The sun mixed ice cubes
creating abyssal sparks in the pit of emptiness,
with allocations between the hours fire
dwindling. Embers of writing.
It is on a sanctuary that had consider
venom errors and defects of Centauri
stemming from mares of Magnesia. The hour digs
memory with starved teeth.
Each landscape tore nodes vapors
on vascular cryptograms, called
commonly ferns, whose fronds,
type blue and purple provoked layer
layer variances delicate despite its ages
millennia. The pounding was so sensitive that the down
heart leaped at the lower achievement.
On the kidneys, an eclipse offered to dust,
this is a tribute atoning close to torture.
The event that precedes the presentiment
it had buried appearances through
nail. The night would soon devour everything
on the ground of an enigma immortal.
The limits of sanctuaries