new (eloquence).

I. open my eyes

I see the river

dressed in a white dress and

a worn hat caught on a string

again a labyrinth thought full of minotaurs

pleasure begins as

a theatre of shadows

with strings (visible)

with doubt that takes variable forms

a play of possibilities

I would fall into the queen's sin/ if I followed your urging.

he. eight and a half with stage potential

nine and a quarter

I have a kind of fever of anticipation

with mimetic games

feet with lustful fingers

nodding discreetly in sandals with studs in

the bus station blackened by

false expectations unawareness

even feel a pleasure of fears

between desires/ unexpressed gestures/ that unravel.

me. it's almost transparent

I see his bones I mirror myself in them

whole/ complete/ defined

(this day doesn't exist/ no one lived it before us)

I listen to the stories of all the years walled up

in the warm steam of the attic (yours)

I learn how to love silently

while your hands with

with the extensions of echer and ruler

build/ on the plank and/ on my imaginary waters.

I. I am your chalk sedan

he. projects the most beautiful morning

at the crossroads/ coincidence project about bridges

and favorite poem

I. fall in love/ coagulate

in the pause between "hello" and "morning"

(I know you're going to read this/ (but please) don't tell me anything about circles)

him. I close the door behind you me

I lie in bed

it smells like the cinematography of your skin

the sky is tattooed with autumn leaves floating

above me sinuous and alive

you remind me of the song "est ce que le bonheur"

I don't believe in tomorrow

I'm waiting for you to come back

I know that exceptional destiny is the saddest in the world.

I. In love with this demon with a mask and

red stockings

pleasure is tasted every morning/ symptom

inevitable is the little tragedy at the end

the coribrant dies the maenad

I'm crying

I decide to give up clothes

I keep only my raincoat with its varnished plumage.

he. I get on the train

the train in all its connections

peripheral

again I reach moscow/ I stop

meanwhile

I wonder will get lost

among the others who will invade your streets/ (body) time.

Sundays are quiet.

i. in the space between j.j. rousseau and the dress

new/ tight

I find reasons for (forgotten) thoughts

that make their way

the long crick of the lighter lights another cigarette.