News in english from L'Oie de Cravan publishing in Montreal
Boulevard des Invalides
I saw it this morning:
twenty-five years, my love, twenty-five years have gone by.
You don’t take them out anymore your painted wood scarecrow your clear day companion You don’t take out your horses your madmen and whales you don’t tidy your seagulls in the seagull drawer you don’t have animals anymore or much hope you don’t light up the fire more than once or twice a summer you don’t sleep in the snow you don’t hunt the cherries with your great gay airs and it’s rare, it’s quite rare for you to remember me our fears, laughter and six p.m. trains You don’t rumple the forests of laundry you don’t pin lace onto the face of the sky anymore you don’t open these wings or very little and nothing ever takes off much farther than the end of last winter when we followed the stream embroidered with a balustrade that had white or green highlights which lasted until night You don’t last until night
Today more easily than in the past when I used to hold the key to it I wander in your hollow I say more easily because it’s been empty of you since it’s been empty of me I don’t even see that spear planted in the morning anymore Boulevard des Invalides I can’t picture your voice Yet, I know— the down of your body still burns inside the earth the wind along your shoulders still makes that husky chant but you no longer have shoulders you don’t even have wings and the lioness tosses in her bed of dead wood and every Sunday writes to Sundays that were and the envelopes are empty inside like those shelves under the sea with their empty boats and empty fishes you don’t bring in your wolves you don’t take off your gloves to stroke the rain you don’t have naked fingers left under those rings that naked mouth amid the haze and those knees, those pigeons those clouds above your breasts you don’t come back in at night with your big cold beasts and that smell of the city afar the black alleys and I don’t know your neck anymore or your nape that moved slowly in the heavy air for me alone Even the coal bucket the little nuggets of water you won’t bring them in your purple house anymore with your fifteen fur coats on Now even your tongue is dead though I still speak it
Pierre Peuchmaurd, Parfaits Dommages et autres achèvements.