Annie Lafleur
Translated by François Luong
from Handkerchief

How does this space
of violence inspire you a grip
and a manifest at best
it'd seem that at the rise
tan milestones force the fall of that
there, we should have noted
since today, everything's returned

ropes honed by the wind
admire the quaking of alloys
that loses this message
trampled behind the mount

since the envelope is not sealed
this landscape promises a word
in the rugged fold

§

Your workshop fades
on the city imposed by sight
when one enters through wax
stacked gods draw lines on us

but the spectacle maintains
its flicker at the edge
and falls
like the morning
dodged by the driver

remains point strongly
without seeing
the megalithic sky obeys
to the metals of the street

now that I am there
near the stacked top
the hood lays on you
the barrels of the Atlantic graze
to make of you
the great fire consumes the crowd
lit and killed

§

Feast laid askew
grey on the highway this skill reacts
the swell blossoms into an arc
from here one sees everything

the twists and twirls of hills on fire
grease of ashes on the way
in the crawled thin face
carcass of sun
soothes the end

the journey stampede under cover
the fallow that chases this mist
and on the pier nothing goes

girdle to the slain forest
vent on you shake
tobacco rising as panorama
cross this landscape forgotten
by crime

§

The throat buried by sounds
comes forth marvelously
on the notebooks where sleeps my head

the nasal mark raises sand
like rocks, and the pierced windows
plummet on the choir

battering the door, a clear priest

§

Restored balconies block the kingdom
early, leathers roll, strong
strong tarp covering the citadel

all will depend on the gaping glaze
distracted stain as basket turned out
the file opens the monarchic outside
looks much more the faces

the head fires the scarlet
without organizing the different thousands

§

The transparency of the inn
invites me to the worst
what barks around informs us
murderers are ironing their hoods

the next day
the waxing of faces
merges with the silly gel

the spur softens, clip-clop

we sweep the dead horse's brow