Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Pierre Voélin

You and the wind—you’re keeping watch all the way to the threshold of the constellations

The knots of the Arolla pine redden here the titmice are invisible the cliff is flaked like leaves

We’re speaking the startled fire is licking the bread unsure fingers are pruning back the seasons

Love unblinking eyes —pitiful pitchfork ways

Love he who murmurs his mouth mixed with river sludge because of our hungers and thirsts

Make the reeds of the musician-comets vibrate so he’ll speak again with the insane right at the beginning of their fear

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