I feel only the sea getting closer, my love
crushing my vertebrae
until the soul opens widely its cataracts
and raises to the sun
overwhelmed by pollen
I hear only the sea, my love
sneaking under the wet clothes
like your irresolute stale fingers
silent gangrene growing in my flesh
jellyfish springs through wide orbits
shedding light on us
I kissed you secretly every time you brought rain
in the unknown space between hieroglyphs
your distant breath raised silence
a lateen of blood gliding on heart through the soft snow
I kissed you secretly every time you brought blight
into dark days
I waited for your growing from the stones’ flesh
across the salt that veiled
my past with the same dry tumor
the neon light twinkling on the hallway
like a motion detection sensor
especially mounted to catch
your heartbeats in the way
downstairs to the copier
and the fear, the intense fright
that the perfume which perpetrates
the office under the door is not yours
annihilating my will and nazal fosses
just like the e-mail unexpectedly arrived does: please, print the document
Il est le dernier poil frisé de la moustache de Salvador Dali.
Il est la balle égarée du Winchester de John Wayne.
Il est le rasoir qui a tailladé la figure de métaphore de la poésie.
Il est le dattier qui a adouci les arbres du paradis le long du Tigre et de l’Euphrate.
Qu’avions-nous donc, demandé-je à Abdul Kader El-Janabi,
au cinquième étage, rue Nollet, près de Clichy, à Paris.
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