You let your shirt hang down



putting on airs of cuffs



at the edge of ending night



like the end of a java with double ritournelles



or the way the canaries in the cage of still-closed mornings



were singing that it mattered little



to them that their windows were open



the stones the paving stones the door-frames the armatures



the window-frames the sheets of the bed clothes in their colors



were beating the dawn along with us



better drums than your belly



better drumsticks than my fingers



and the trees and the roofs the river and its bridges



the clear distances of the city the factories without smoke



bathed as at their birth stammered



a trial hello



that only ended however



in this word round as a doubloon



placed on the edge of that day



by a considerate friend



the sun on your arms naked against my cheeks



hello I said to you



the day of quatorz’juillet





