Bagatelle

Each dawn
is a queasy resurrection
from the grave of the nights

les matins sortent de leur
armure bleu-nuit
dans un cliquetis de rosée
the morning jumps out of its armour
within dew janglings

then begin small bricolages
to adjust time to time ,
to fit the minutes morass to the hours
& the hours to the day
& the day to date

four leaves trifles , if we get clever
-four persian gardens
-parade eyes o-
n flying carpet
just a bees jubilee
scents of clematis & daylilies
follow me

Jean-Philippe Guéant

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