By Pierre Lartigue
Is it enough to have wit right down to your fingertips?
Open your mouth: feel how the word trembles!
It is too light and will not leave a mark.
Slopes here is fall. We are here to see
A meadow – rare poppies among – flames
, beans, beef blood! The memory unfolds
In our eyes his long, silent manuscript. Sound of the rolls –
Waters in the rocks, the sea like a milk on the fingers,
He wants to say it and he goes away with the
High flames , the high tides, the roses, all an aspen
Ment-vertigo-malice-together: “We would have to know how to
wait for the return: this heart by thousands of traces,
It will be the water under the teeth of the pebble ”. I trace-
Rai the u of the streams. Each stanza like a dice will roll
towards the setting: saliva, game, smile to have,
(O all that he would like to hold between his
gnawed fingers !). You only have your tongue! Trembles
At the hour when little by little the last flame blinks,
Sink into the shadows, feel the breath on
your neck, understand then that each letter has s-
A rare quality – the black layer of the elderberries trembling-
Ant in the night – know the sentence as an unwinding-
Ment d ink in us which crashes bushes, mud, slate- Splintered
shells. So many things in the voice r-
Move! Gently look up. Listen to see
These lemonades, these soft stars, these flames
That leap. In the shadow box where you stretch your fingers:
“Nothing but the tongue” you said “mouth without a trace.
Never sure of herself, even in the cry”. Unfold
the manuscript flat so that nothing shakes!
A clean poem on aspen wood pulp,
It is there so well copied that we can no longer see
A stained letter. The drafts, they are unrolled,
They are corked with the envelopes, the flames,
The canceled stamps. Each crumples the traces
Of what slipped like a round between your fingers.
At the far end of the fingers, several matches are trembling
With the desire for a written record to be canceled. See
As the thin flame rolls up, unfolds …