His life, his landscape, his sojourn and his horizon rest on this very earth. Here is his transience, here, his fellow creatures meet. The latter take place more or less by chance, they are more or less far away. A wanderer or a prowler, a pedestrian or a peasant from Paris, the poet is a man in walking. Slow moving both in life and in the language, he questions both origin and destination.
Poetry is a matter of feet, of counted feet, elastic shoe lace and worn out shoes.
The poet walks on his head This mortal, in transit, ogles towards the sky. He is a man of concern getting worse, of a persisting imaginary, of a lingering daydream, of a long-lasting quest. His mind wanders elsewhere. Walking on his head, he seems to be delusional. Sometimes one may even believe he's lost all good sense.