Friday, 14 December 2012



My heart is several broken, and I am several sad.
The sun’s a clouded messenger, and I am clotted cream.

My night’s a waking ambulance, light’s a faded dream.
I’ve torn too many pieces, my needle is bare of thread.

I fear that I am living, I know that I am dead.
The moon’s a distant negative, dust a constant cloth.

There is no airless fire, there are no moneyed moths.
I love, who never happened, I happened, to be mad.

St-Lambert, circa 1986.

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