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Ben oui. Mon sketchbook pour le Sketchbook Project s’est égaré dans la malle, probablement près des douanes américaines. Évidemment je n’avais pas gardé de traces de toutes les pages. Voici de quoi il avait l’air de son vivant.


Pour Émilie

Pour Bertrand

Pour Laurence-Aurélie

Pour Bertrand 2

Pour melle Thé

All these things we lose…

just like i’m gonna swallow tons
of snowflakes in the white night.

the city’s so wide and bright tonight
i know i’ll completely disappear
in it, and reappear lively in my bed,
in someone-i-don’t-know-yet’s arms,
in yet’s arms

i’ll be wet with snow
-men dreams, covered with
invisible messages the someone traced
on my sleeping skin, while i was busy
waking up
every single breath fainting in my dream.

then this someone’ll fade into the morning
whiter than the night if that’s possible
at all, after not finding egg whites in the
blinding and blinking refrigerator.
i’ll rise from this no someone’s land
that’s my bed. my cat’ll make cookies
on me just like i’m a piece of sheet
or something.

i’m a piece of snow, man, can’t you see?
can’t you see
me – rolling in crispy snow, yet to discover
this someone’s message on my skin that screams,
i wanna see you


*** This poem has been written for dVerse Poets Pub, tonight about invisibility. Context: tonight is the Nuit blanche in Montréal (literally white night, a series of cultural events that last all night long in the city, and prevent its inhabitants from sleeping – as this is what the expression faire une nuit blanche means: to not sleep at all during a night. I cheated and slept in my poem, somehow.***

« on the other hand », she wrote
that’s easy to write
when you’ve got more
than one arm
to your clock

(am I being)
or counter-clock
wise now?

or most probably just
I mean just dead inside
my right arm,
with this heavy limb to extract
from under my pillow and
throw like
tons of feathers

but don’t worry death’s left
five tweeting fingers
with their right to live
and typing fever
tapping on the right

/it’s as if life took a turn,
freeing one half of me while running
to the other side/

(am I plainly
suffering or rather
discovering unused paths
from mind to sheet,
from wrong to right?)

I am.


*** This poem has been written for dVerse Poets Pub; you will have noticed that this week’s theme is « on the other hand », or seeing both sides of the coin. Don’t worry, I haven’t lost an arm, I simply sprained my shoulder almost 2 weeks ago, and therefore have had to find new ways to do things without my right arm.***

woke up to the whitest
of ideas,
lying still
powdering as flakes
of love were falling down and I
should go get them quick —

groceries. food
for thoughts.
for tough
minds and hearts and
like mine. food for mines
that I should avoid as well as heaps
of snow covering all peace
-fully —
i’m a weightlifter
of boots and hearts.

lost in white is
my way, as is yours,
and the moon
for this overwhelming screen is
weighing on my eyelids like
the heaviest tears of women before
and now
I have things to heave,
to ease —

ebbs. flows.

regular is only a word
some other people have invented
to make sure they control
their snowflake intake;
I am here lying
on a white surface,
waiting for the beautifullest
– irregular –
snowflake to drop
on my tongue,
again and again.


i slip under the door, leaving
them to someone else’s care
as i don’t

who’s left for me
tell me

as i wear ochre and black
every day that i’m walking
a forest of skinned bodies)

don’t talk to me i’m busy
i’m already in disguise
can’t you see?
i’m crying

is it that
whoever drifted away from sight
is considered dead
by the whitest soul?
tell me ’cause
i’m innocent

and lost
tell me
who’s left for me
to cry for?
who’s left
to cry for

i don’t care
i’m sipping tea, and
slipping rose petals under gateways
i’m going to walk through soon
when i had enough
of burying myself
under heaps of earth-
en ware

when i hit home
my cry will let you all
know —


*** Oh, and here’s the link to today’s prompt at dVerse poets pub! We had to take the colo(u)r wheel, and play with colo(u)r symbolism. Believe it or not as my poem is sad, but I had a lot of fun including colo(u)rs into it. Make sure you check out on a few other poets’ contributions too!
By the way the picture was taken by me (and instagrammed) during a walk in Old Montreal. I wish I knew who made this beautiful doorart. ***

Falling up.

This is what’s written on my new sky-blue no-sleeve
the one with clouds on

what I’m wearing is an exact reflection
of what I (think I) am
and words type themselves
across my chest,
burn it on the left side,
and leave handmarks

your hands
were sent to me by email
open wide and blank
like the pages I would have written on your back
if you had stayed across me in the mornings,
pages inked with this purple pen
that left a bruise-colored stain
on the other side of my heart

when I left you leaving me I
now I am
falling up,
rising in a sunny vest
over the clearest double rainbow
a 50-year-old had ever seen

but how can things be
so clear?
white on white
ink on ink
that is
the clearest of things


It’s a soppy Monday morning —
you’re wet with rose water, and
eyedrops have left prints on
the sacks under your eyes —
are under way,
copies of mornings to come
as if you could copy the future
(but you’re pretty sure you can).

It’s a dirty Monday morning —
your glasses are chalk-white, and
you have to roll your eyes to see him
walk in &
forget his code
with the puppiest look —
right away you’d adopt a dog
next time you’re allowed to dream
(in your office, on the floor).

It’s a crazy Wednesday morning —
your hands feel empty without coffee, and
you’d have grabbed his – instead you
only said bonjour,
but your step was sure
as you ran upstairs, racing
after the trace of him & shame
of letting your dream out of your mouth
(but maybe his is close too).

It’s a blurry Wednesday evening —
you’re clearing your ears of student voices,
practicing your own je m’appelle
in your corridor head,
till he rushes out
& your blood rushes too —
eyebrows lifted like chapeaux,
as if you could copy a pretty man’s smile
(but you can, of course).

This is the year of dark and moist forests
of your smile piercing branches
when the moon is too big to see
what is really hidden

On a complementary day
yellow + purple
you lifted your fingers to say hi
they spelled victory
I read two, I read light

Two days before we had tea
yellow, red
if we are to give things their real names
just like they make purple
to my unbalanced eyesight
just like
they make sense

The coming year is one of sherbet
mango, strawberry
soft-colored on your palate
acrid on mine
because I am addicted to the brownish kind of

As the moon decreases it shows
how much of ourselves
so that taste and color
can melt one into another
so that we can add numbers
to each other’s presence


Written for today’s Meeting the Bar, where Victoria C. Slotto invited us to write about synesthesia, which I have a very mild form (every digit has its color).


I am a lunar girl
every single one of my steps is lit
when nobody else’s is

when everybody else is


I am at work, gazing
into the past that’s
decreasing and the
future that’s all the same

– cause I know you all from the past,
where we’ll return to –

I am no sunshine girl
wearing more than half a suntanned face
at a time, taking off
even at night

– cause you know how the song goes,
and how we used to be –


at the northeastern corner
of a circle that’s
hard to explain geometrically
just like
other things real

I am a lunar girl
whose nimble feet are lit, sandals
and pain
at the tip of my toes, dainty

– cause we all know how blessed light-
ness is
after dark nights of


This poem was written for tonight’s dVerse Poets Pub, which is about trips. This week’s theme inspired me so much I had to scribble something and come out with it, even though I have a hard time editing and viewing my texts tonight – see you guys tomorrow for the reading and commenting part.









(Written for dVerse Poets Pub, tonight on short verse)