:::::::::::::::::::::::::CAMILLE MARTIN


the past is inexperienced

but it is the flower of translation,

returning to a scandal foreseen

flipping through fate in an almanac.

does not correspond to a fall or a harbor.

not something to be erased or placed in an envelope.

a pleasure-trip with loss, only

questions of words for a vagabond on a metaphoric bridge.

a document is not the event.

it declares its own film

beyond the molecules’ tapestry of stains.

the past molts its body

at every indefinite light, wracks its flair

for home. somewhere there is snow that arouses

the beginning of waiting in a cold arrival,

the origins of currents.

from “ the arterials”