The pigeons which flutter in the meadow,
the game which runs and sees in the dark,
the water animals, the animal enslaved,
the last butterflies!.. also are thirsty.
But to dissolve where that wandering cloud is dissolving –
Oh! Favoured by what is fresh!
To expire in those damp violets
whose awakening fills these woods?
L. K. Thayer’s Foto Fetish
In winter we’ll travel in a little pink carriage
With cushions of blue.
We’ll be fine. A nest of mad kisses waits
In each corner too.
You’ll shut your eyes, not to see, through the glass,
Grimacing shadows of evening,
Those snarling monsters, a crowd going past
Of black wolves and black demons.
Then you’ll feel your cheek tickled quite hard…
A little kiss, like a maddened spider,
Will run over your neck…
And you’ll say: “Catch it!” bowing your head,
– And we’ll take our time finding that creature
– Who travels so far…
Photo by VC Ferry
“I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window;
golden chains from star to star, and I dance.”
– Arthur Rimbaud