Let us sit down
in the dust, slowly.
You, to count the carts
with myopic horses.
I, to braid bell tongues (messily).
Too well drowned
within the weight of the one
who stays behind
In a day for working out the left side.
Don't turn around.
The children are stealing grapes.
Sour.

Ill. : Félix AFTENE
Text : FURNICA