They say it’s spring going to snow, bright fishes in dry air and I would be one of them, falling leaves haven’t had the time to get wet.
Fishing around and going back up in cloudy bushes in a deep dark dump bit through the fence by the lights of passing cars.
An evening.
À la nuit tombée ronces séchées creuses de métal, lueur d’eau. Novembre encore rose, a few words at a time. Premiers jours de l’hiver, cheveux rouges.
Dans la chambre aux cartons.
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