Playing

Each day playing with a girl with hairdresser allure I live in a blond poem of air, near the timid azure: Counting the legs walking in the park of my spring, I tell you sweet nothing, to exclaim: how interesting! So, I play with the days laughing of me, in the rye: Leggy girls drawing a shining horizon of their thigh. In my cradle of wishful thinking, the fugitive Albertine Escaped from Proust, still smiles in the same scene. In which, I really am the catcher of each invented joy. So, I play with the sun running the long clouds convoy. And you keep your hand on my shoulder and smile, Like only a sunny day knows: at distance of a mile, Far away from the young tempest jumping the rope. Some days borrowed the perfume of Miss Hope...