Par |2019-01-19T09:35:42+00:00 17 juillet 2012|Catégories : Blog|


You des­cend into the world, God.
You arrive and ima­gine
that you are slyer than islands,
wiser than glass.
You bring
silk made to mea­sure for my dark­ness.
You pry into my joints
– set inex­pert­ly. From my body some­thing
has leapt out, vani­shed, vapou­ri­sed.
Through your curio­si­ty
I have lost my mind.
Now I am one of my modes : storm, bliz­zard
and some other airy ins­tincts.
I can­not fit into a myth.
But it will do,
you contain me,
I cover your face.
You give me noble masks.
You think I will accept
tact, tan­go, tulle – an ele­gant balance.
Be care­ful, Lord.
Do not grow your roots inside me.
I do not want such a pom­pous,
such a plush death.
Remove the cli­mate from me,
per­haps I should
be a bird.
Touch me with ice,
per­haps I should
be the her­ba­rium of the Universe.
Be care­ful, Lord.