They appeared, overnight,
on our steps, like frost stars
on our windows, their strict
crooked arms pointing
this way and that, scare-
crows, skeletons, limbs
akimbo. My father
cursed in his other tongue
and scraped them off,
or painted them over.
My mother bit her lips.
This was all a wonder,
and is: how that sign
came to be a star flashing
above our house when I dreamed,
how the star's bone-white light
first ordered me to follow,
how the light began
like the oak's leaves in autumn
to yellow, how the star now
sometimes softens the whole sky
with its twelve sides,
how the pen moves with it,
how the heart beats with it,
how the eyes remember.
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© Michel Fingerhut 1996-2001 - document mis à jour le 23/02/2001 à 19h22m28s.
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