The love in your teeth sagged as a hind
with the breath still lukewarm.
The feathers stuck in the flesh, long spears.

You were a nest or a bird.

Poultry with feathers in the body?
Or a roof with tiles?

Sharpened, well forged,
although with soft ends.

Between heaven and the earth
there is always a spot
that will be called bird.

No one will die silent
as long I lean
by the alive.
Nothing is wasted until I’ll be.


You who knows to take any shape
and who are word!
You who knows to make only gifts
and gift shapes for hearts.


Could you become a poultry?

Could you wake up in the night to clean with the beak
that was born vulnerable,
lukewarm and solid
in particular ?

To two people who would’ve do something in life
To two people that something would ’ve do by mouth,
by writing,
or sit
or merely walking by foot…

A hind with the blood still lukewarm waits for them…
And with the love amongst teeth…