would the world be different
if little babies
were born bursting out laughing
and not shouting out?

before the black
decomposition of blue

blue of fault
then
posthumous blue

imprisoned blood
stagnating in mud

night

spring-dissension-snow
the cold is crackling
and making itself feverish of blue

ground-shoulder
at time arches itself
the day awaits us

and already invite water
memory of banks
without the travel

at dawn
the mother’s blood
another burning sky

there will be no more retouch
the world is launched
between doors and roads

to travel with oneself
blood road
towards a blocked downstream

not much images will remain
perhaps a beauty spot

a veil of blue
hardly crumpled
of dragonflies

any childhood
has the sky
for playing field

you come
the day is rising
the world is symmetrical

the heart becomes lighter
the sky is breathing
memory is fertile

the hour is faded
the die is launched
hazard is flimsy

in ” un monde en prose” Apogee éditions

the metal hour
with the beam of the winds

the morning seek
its papers

black
black on shade
Beck sees it moved

this is not night
just a threshold
offered to the light

I live in a poem

at the end of the third stanza

on the left

of shade the abode
a man is entering

arid body
perhaps flesh
perhaps elsewhere