we would go up there, as we used to do, and our homework as well, we did, full of joy, pressing very hard on the pencil lead: letters like angels telling stories (I never knew how to draw anything else).
up there
Archives de catégorie : prosepoem
weaving links
I will weave connexions, trembling threads in the fresh air of the river, traits of light, airin attempts, some nothings or kinds of magnets, or fingers seeking a solar story.
fortune teller
She insists on adding a few minutes to her lifeline, a few days perhaps, of good life, but she has too much to do, too much to say, or too much baggage, or past to prune.
geometry of a(n) (strange) afternoon
she walks between the branches of the afternoon, rough inside, strange outside: a thickness in the air, a promise of winter (one can not always live at spring time), the earth needs to freeze and repair itself from time to time.
after breakfast
to smile from the fingertips to cover the chaos of the world, catching sight from a distance of more failures than victories, or maybe it is the opposite, I cannot remember (I do not speak to the gods after breakfast).