Did anyone ever happen
to tear off the butterfly's wings,
going through the fall?
The empty wood inside the half-asleep fish.
All the trees are mad.
I feel myself in safety beside them.
They open an etrance into the street lamp's holes for me.
I gulp trees.
Today I put the dead earth on.
I cut off my face
to hide the cracks.
The crickets go out
when the Moon cries.
Having choked with the branches,
I lost my sight.