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Jean-Michel Maulpoix

By This Poet

1

Sometimes one of us stands near the sea

He remains there for a long time, starting at the blue, motionless and stiff, as if in a
church, knowing nothing about what weighs upon his shoulders and holds him back,
so weak, hypnotized by the sea. He remembers what may have never happened. He
swims through his own life. He lightly feels its shape. He explores its distant edges. 
He allows the sea to unfold within him:  it grows to match his desire, becomes
intoxicated on his sorrow, strikes out like a blind man’s cane, and leads him without 
haste where the heavens alone have the last word, where no one can say anything else,
where no tuft of grass, no idea grows, where the head emits a hollow sound
after spitting out its soul.