White Piano. Nicole Brossard
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of peoples in flight,
city legs knees hurry up cited
then hope of superstition
a comfort of the end of the world
out there a rich foam of intimate life
spelled sky that thunders right up to the pupils
too much love and not enough
afterward we say it’s the North
and we go to bed with a woman
in the silence slow foliage
we sleep right through the night
without punctuation or sepulchre
in the machine to inundate the world
suddenly I’m where the wind begins
I’d like to understand
mammals, the humanity that runs
in the veins
the hand-to-hand combat of grief
the drowned world the images of farewell
how our lips
and the huge side of the sea
other times it’s suspicious I become
a generation a vine
a cascade of shadows and of dialogues
Hotel Furama, L.A.
in the lounge white piano
a work in imagination
curled fingers centred over the keyboard
no night can live up to night and its story
Hotel Furama
the dictatorship rose up
all blue, all night
nuggets of interdiction
it would be dark
in a mirror at night it would be impossible
to lean close. To open our arms
every morning in the name of small survivals
the bougainvillea climb up to our knees;
later in the belligerent gleam of muscular
limos, we examine the ego
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