Régis Bonvicino, p.3

SONG (4)

How often fingers
pinched at the nails
sun ducking the walls
how many silent

turns with himself
how often there
right in mud’s orient
how often aspired

to be Rimbaud and trafficked
so the days passed, severe,
as absence

today?, yesterday?, how often
the windmill blades don’t turn
love was for words, among them
cold star that errupts