I
To follow the groove
which runs along the infinite
grey lands
to arrive at the heart of poetry
stripping it
of words drawn from ritual artifice
to
approach in (the) silence
nothing more
II
The word tempts images
so as to reveal new ones,
sailing through an ocean of dream
until an invisible bird
stops its light:
poetry
inhabits the poem,
the meaning is ripped.
Unease.
III
Between the flickering flame
and the bramble, the poem
crackles: an insect
caught at last
in the silk of a window curtain.
IV
Words on a dry stone wall,
crickets in the stream, chirping.
Branch,
root,
silence.
Fluttering
of words there where the copper-coloured
light lived.
Death howls.
V
The walker reaches
the cliff. He moves
along the thread of the poem,
pauses.
Writing is the enigma
of the bird frozen in mid-flight
in the shining twilight.
From doubt, knowledge is born.
VI
A bench
in the empty corridor…
just
so that so much
melancholy might have a rest.
VII
The mist hugs the ground,
for a moment
the light gets through, burning up
words, ancient voices,
a passion.
-Wipe out all meaning
in order to feel.
Cold embers, extreme memory
hanging over the abyss
of the other
of yourself.
VIII
To climb to the peak
and go on,
cutting through the wind.
Daring to go even further.
Only absence
leaves a trace.
IX
Afternoon douses the light:
the poem moves along a horizon
woven with crimson thread.
My lips brush the path
of the butterflies of sleep.
X
The poem lives
on the far bank
of meaning.
XI
Suddenly, I realise
how far I am from home,
living in another country,
living in another tongue.
It is then that it surprises me
I have no wish to move from here.
from
Fiction