It's late, Miss China, and: He and I, and: The Drownings in the Yonne, and: Small i

It's late, Miss China

the cause of despair wasthe effect of another despair

the erased world still pulsedraindrops antsa world dreamed henceforthacross the snow

and after weeks of insomniathe dream, at last

reeds smokea soldier in rags

little gnatin the grimy windowpanemy silence and my stillnessfinally frighten youand you fly away

the car's headlightscoming through the fogat full speedinterested him so much that

you can imagine what happens next (and last)

He and I

what's disturbingis the glowing darknessbetween the two rooms

in one a child pretends he's rollinghis hoop across a city

in the other a man is sittingwith his head bent toward the floor

so as not to burn his eyes

later the man watched the childscore a point while expectingthe white-gloved waiterwho'd bring him his bowl of raspberrieson a bed of iceneither of the two was happyor unhappy

The Drownings in the Yonne

In memory of Frédéric B.

sometimes, you know it, the wheat spears are as blueas the deep perspectivesof old buildingsat nightfall

and sometimes, tired of stretching vainly toward the sunthey lie down on ridged earthrefusing to move

if you cross the bridge, you will finda jutting ash treewashing its wounds in the current

faces call from between the fishing boatswhose flanks beat ceaselessly against the bankghost at the edge of an abyss of light

see me my Lord how I am strayinglike the lamb condemned to the slaughterhouse I pass throughdoorways above which lanterns lead me on with their single eyeI cross steel bridges that trembleeach time a train rolls beneath their belliesyou were born in winteramong old trees surrounded by stonesI climb toward pallid places where there is squabbling night andday in differentdistant languagesthe city would like to entice me into a dream decked in garlands in honor of your starbut I take my life away deep into the alleyways

a voice rolls down to the trough of the wavesthe chimes did not soundhow to lay one's head on a motherly breast?the drowned room keeps shiningwhat do we know besidesthe old fecundity

Small i

Small i suffers and muddlesa sky-blue thread stripes his heartas if his eye had leaked into it

he wails he throws himself uplittle master Small iscarlet with angerat his intestinal torpor

a yellow broom bush by the tracksno longer calms Small i downnor purple shrubs the wind abandonsbetween glistening puddles

and yet Small i once wascomplicit with the worldhad all the elbow room he neededat its all-night cafeteria