All that the night sketches with its hand of shadow: the pleasure it reveals, the vice it uncovers.

All that the shadow
lets hear with its
blow of silence:
the voice unforeseen
it burns between spaces,
the cry of the blood,
the murmur of some strayed
steps.

All that the silence
makes flee from things:
the stream of desire,
the sweat of the earth,
the nameless fragrance
of the skin.

All that desire
anoints on my lips:
the dreamed sweetness
of a contact,
the tasted taste
of saliva.

And all that dream
turns palpable:
the mouth of a wound,
the shape of an entrails,
the fever in a hand
that dares.

Everything !
Flows in each branch
of the veins of my tree,
fondles my thighs,
flood my ears,
lives in my dead eyes,
dies on my hard lips...