dimanche, 18 janvier 2009
Petite anthologie portative 50
These fish have no eyes,
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.
But there's one that comes —
heavy, scarred, silent like the rest,
that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against
the current, closing and opening
as it holds to the current.
(Raymond Carver, All of us, New-York, Knopf, 2000)