Benoît Pioulard
Tie
Flee to the fields, it's a locust yearLeas & melt-water to defy the seerA rosary around the wristsThe rope descends with tendernessOh they've got a file on meThe Venn pall of anxietySticks across fences make a raucous soundThe call of the abyss, foxglove's on the groundFlee to the fields, take your calmativeFirst to arrive, always the last to leaveO the rapture of the plain, an intimation of mortalityA halcyon sketch of persistent unease hanging from the Magnolia tree
From Letras Mania