Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

13 Poems

The direction is not clear Like in the delirium Of closed shutters of a cold sweat in secret detours (childish signs where the whole life squeezed itself where the wind had no hold) there is a taboo Talk to me if you want about this vertigo its first secret in front of the hexes The birds’ sad song is no more than unreadable parchment

a hunt for a meteor in a shadow’s corner something feverous through the water’s sails So a door slams now you be come you will no longer leave me

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