DOMINIQUE FOURCADEcounterpointing
two tall willows against which the scent of a walnut huddles and in front of
them but apart an ash again
in the courtyard itself five young restless immobile pure-blood lindens
in the other courtyard, the one with the gas cistern, the buddleia
(subspontaneous, oh flower of vacant lots) is an ensemble in itself, at high
frequency
lilac particles drunk on butterflies fragrance solitude
bearing
behind the house, along the river this time
an ash willow interlace, to which
one — the willow perhaps — consented
projecting, as it always does, in an arc over the water — dragonfly heliport
calopteryx virgo, green violet metal of dark wing, no, blue violet dark dark, it’s
got ribs, and the segmented light pink of their abdomens
ophthalmic damselfly eros (dip your swollen eyes in the water of the river while
I raise)
ensemble — the dragonflideas — with the lightest agenda in the world, the least
piloted, the most squadronized — making nothing but love (in a circle, or
copulatory heart), and laying eggs, and nibbling a gnat this sequence occurs
on an overhanging reed, or for variety, flying —
in the world
and at the far end of the meadow along the other branch of the river a line, a
contour
of willow-heights of alternating willows and alders some of which dead
ingresque and not
willows
sometimes the wings join on top of the abdomen
perched
dragonflies beings of the sun, or crepuscular
how dare young moorhens walk across lilypads
masses, there’s something more creamy about the willows than about other
appearances
what stabilizes their flight? a cybernetic system, no doubt (you’ve seen the hairy
plates on their pro-thoraxes?), or an inertial platform (or maybe from a