(extraits)

 

 

 

                                                                  Abandon

 

 

 

                                                       Le ver­tige de la parole

                                                                               ne se mesure plus

 

                         L’oubli est au regard         obtus

                                                       l’espérance immense

                                                                               si bien perdue

 

                          Le rire n’est plus              celui de l’enfant

                                                                                 il est double

                                                                                                      et en cela divisible

 

                                                       Comme un quê­teur d’étoiles

                            l’ombre se penche               au  miroir

 

                                                       mais les mains impuissantes

                                                                                 restent vaines à saisir la clarté

 

                                          

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                      Ciel    goût de sel

                                                         ouvert

                                                                     ravive      la blessure

 

                                      du gris s’étend  

                                                                      épaisse la pensée

 

                                       le feu d’entre les murs      s’enfume

                                                                                       les fenêtres sont humides

 

 

                                       O le som­meil en proie

                                                                 lorsque les mains se convulsent

                                       la chair frisonne            engluée

 

                                                                                  O le drap de prière

 

                            

 

                                    

                                 

                                   

                                                

 

 

 

 

                                                    Pro­jetée                  vers d’improbables issues

                                                    la course défie       la source

                                             

                                                   Patience,    tra­jec­toire,            délaissées

                                                   les pics se dressent                   au sable nu

 

                                                   Glisse le grain                  aux fentes des dialogues

                                                                                              la soli­tude est affir­mée en vain

 

                                                 Tant d’ombres mouvantes

                                                  flot­tent                             sous les yeux clos

 

                                                 La mâchoire serrée 

                                                                                     en appui

                                                                                                       sur la main

                                                porte                           le  poids intense

                                                                                                      de l’effort vain

                                                 le cou ploie

                                                                                       sous le coup sombre

 

                                              Cepen­dant le vent

                                                                               bat les pans

                                                                                                      d’une fenêtre ouverte

                                                                 

                                          

                                                                                                       

                                        

 

 

                                Un manque de souffle

                                tache le chant

 

                                Seuls      les yeux suiv­ent       la mon­tée des mots

                                                 tan­dis qu’une voix tombe

                                le long des cordes élimées

 

 

                                 La langue ravale l’élan    retenu

                                 pour n’avoir qu’attendu

 

                                 Chaque com­mis­sure sous le sel

                                 plisse        puis          craque

                                                   &  le long            de la terre

                                 des souch­es de troncs secs

                                 se vident                      éclatent

                                                                        sous le gel

 

                                Ombre    sève sombre

                                obscurcit le songe

                            

 

 

                                                                                 

 

                                  

 

 

                                    

                                    Cin­gle le vent et glace les joues tendres

 

                                      Par des cieux pâles

                                      l’allée aux frêles merisiers

                                      empoudre  nue

                                                                        l’entaille au sol

                                      

                                      Trop de blancheur 

                                                                            la vie en creux

                                         miroir       un instant apparu 

                                                                               se fige

                                                     

                                         O l’étreinte d’un jour clos

 

                                         Cepen­dant       suintent

                                         des gouttes de chaleur 

                                                                  le long des paumes jointes

 

                                         Une veille en som­meil                recueille

                                          la vague  promesse                     d’un soleil plein

 

                                                        Panse  les gerçures

                                           déjà             les impatiences

                                                                          se récusent

 

                                            Pour­tant   l’instant

                                                                       s’éprouve démuni 

                                                                                                    

                               

                                                       

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                   L’afflux du vent                   s’écoule

                                                   glacé                         au cœur des veines

                                                   Sous un ciel                obscurci

                                                   le faix des villes             se raidit

 

 

                                                  Il pleut le

                                                                         long

                                                                                   des verticales

                                                                                                               Tombe

                                                                                                                                l’ombre

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                                     

 

 

                                                         Lasse

                                                                           s’apaise la révolte

 

 

                                                       L’appel avec son heure     ont fui

 

                                                       délaisse             pour le désert

                                                       des cieux dolents 

                                                                                        se fanent

 

                                                       Reste  un lisse visage

                                                       blême 

                                                       que le sort peine

                                                       d’un doigt à désigner

                                                       ten­ant la mort        comme faiblesse

 

                                                       Voici venir le temps

                                                      où les forces reviennent

 

                                                      Le don est sans rancœur

                                                      nourrici­er       généreux 

 

 

 

                                  

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