Emmanuel Hocquard, p.1


At Christmas, Cyrille brought the wolves into
the house.
Where does he find them.
They sing for forty minutes
at the bitching hour.
Part of a pack, echoes, scraps of distance
Ever since I’ve listened to them for several
These wolves, Viviane, sing around the points.
Do they need to enter the room to hear the
snow falling.
Heaps of little lives in juxtaposition.
If I wrote to you in the past tense I would feel I
was lying.
Will you be back on New Year’s Day?