In the love that gusts, and watches me die over and over in the sails.
By the flameless between there are the surrounds of your barricades
and they are patterned, saying tears-that-have-just-dropped
in running blue lawns, in running blue rushes
provoking the resting sunlight pixels,
revolting in the standing pine tenderness;
Intoxicating the mouths of dandelions that bronze the innocence.
I remember all those celling lights to feel that I am, in and those cellings
made out from lamentations and drank eyes. Upwards cries.
Unlooked for and hidden away in the ideas of shadows
in the ideas of my darling, biting the roundness of the canals of closed door handles, that open carefree, as I bite again for the blackness to drift slowly over the lateness of my left bedroom, for the love that gusts.
Poem By Greta Bellamacina
Image by Paul Franco in Paris
Greta is wearing Etre Cecile
