Bastille

You let your shirt hang down putting on airs of cuffs at the edge of ending night like the end of a java with double ritournelles or the way the canaries in the cage of still-closed mornings were singing that it mattered little to them that their windows were open the stones the paving stones the door-frames the armatures the window-frames the sheets of the bed clothes in their colors were beating the dawn along with us better drums than your belly better drumsticks than my fingers and the trees and the roofs the river and its bridges the clear distances of the city the factories without smoke bathed as at their birth stammered a trial hello that only ended however in this word round as a doubloon placed on the edge of that day by a considerate friend the sun on your arms naked against my cheeks hello I said to you the day of quatorz’juillet