The Yale Anthology of Twentieth-Century French Poetry

FRANCK VENAILLE

the last nine years. Solitary, not at all companionable, I struggle but don’t insult
anyone (I must say the sand is beginning to stifle me) the beach is wavering soon
they will smoke out my burrow. I loved you A bed is only a bed and the sand isn’t
creaking, here come the cries the blows, this time I am definitively wounded.
—mary ann caws