At night I have summer worries

Rags of wheat fly

At the whim of returned hills

In the valley of my night I grow flowers

That I will offer for her birthday to the mother

Of all the deviances proposed to our children

Who for light set fire to carnivorous statues

At night I walk in the jungle I walk in the steppes

I take a turn around the Gare de l’Est by sowing compasses

Full of chillies and undressed peonies that dry out

At night I sleep at night I do not sleep at night I sleep at night I do not sleep

I eat my fingers and lick my fingers and look at my nails

And my knuckles finally grow rosy while sagging

The keys of my sea foam piano

Because at night I connect the earth to the moon with my uncomfortable rowboat

I cross the seven seas with my boots filled with dreams

Before dawn comes to feed the aurora borealis by the beak

Which sonorously stretches in an ironic fall

Of these infra-punctured breasts and expressing to them solely

The dialogue of our crayfish nights with the sound of the African drum

At night I catch thought in midair

Suddenly she multiplies and becomes rangoli

To finish at the foot of a staircase whose shadow warms me

(Surrealist Group of Paris – November 28 2017)