By the canefields at dusk.

From solidarity and desire, the trace of winter’s end, Will I always remember that? I see people Scowled on their prophecies, and dreams from before Are never nearly settled in the impression of first want— With these rhythmic ghosts upon red petals, and in the distance The beauty of the dew—vanishing in deeper silence— Terrifying their own voices nightmarish with unease

Mes mots dans ce rêve.

The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands, Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide, blistering with mercy;