Maxime Le Moing | Writings | Recordings | Films | Agenda | French version
When the party ends,
the acid house absorbing
its own organs,
a morning walk in the open fields
reminds us of this music.

No forest needed
to hear the birds.

They plug into
the electrical wires
of stray poles,

extending the empty sky of fluorescent chirps.


At the first trumpet notes
the ear unrolls
a juvenile oasis.

We follow the instrument,
dreading
the silence of a mirage.

It is the step followed by another
which guides thirst.