PRAIRIE WIND
The range of the wind is strong; nothing stops
Its
persistence on the prairie, not even
Exotic barns or silos in demise.
The
beautiful vegetable garden grinds its colours in metope.
The sheet tears
itself away, catches up the other shrouds
In the turbulent sky. I’m looking
for my dream
Where these funny clouds go unremittingly
In my eyes
towards flourishing estuaries.
Rolling in the grasses, my dreams turn
Into
facts! And I lose the balance of the thundering
Life. I have no need for my
survival
To nestle in the Archives that move.
I duplicate myself to rule.
The requirement
Is my feat. The perfection is a bow
That only its Master
can bend; that is noticed
With the simple movement of one finger that
arranges itself.
The straight roller levelled the week well.
So the seed
coupled with this prosperous ground
Spreads prospect. If a friend finds
Nostalgia, he makes a mistake about the field.
I roll endlessly -
putting flowers in my hair -
Like a song in nightclub at the hippie
times.
I fasten the moon scratched with utopianism -
Or with impure odes
shouted by highly-strung persons.
The moon is like a secular guitar.
It
shows the scratches made by the nails of the time
And by the memory of
distinguished springs
That illuminated much more than one hectare.
It is
natural that the cream, which marked
Our lips, comes back to decorate this
ball -
Covered with a spangled cape - which comes charging down
Before going
back in its musky box.
The imperfect tense is accursed for some late kings.
Such a celestial ancestor rolling a pink storm,
I extol The Loner in my
white edition,
Because he drowns effigies and borrowing.
*
Denis Between The
Rusty Words.
(Saturday November 5, 2005)
© IDDN 2005
