Pour Agnès (et JR)

If you don’t put this very face on a big wall,* I will.

     I go collect&examine,

     wondering what’s left behind,

     or stands afront.

     She’s dead by now,

     so I’d never met her, heard her, or holded her

     little artistic hand, full of pre-couloured soap bubbles.

     She, too, will never meet me and my photoverses. 

     But at least I can read about her on Wiki, it seems we both love(d) sea,        

     precisely la mer des plages, 

     this immense source of inspiration, and a tender, body-embracing shelter.

          He’s much alive, though, at least as based on the Instagram (&artistic) evidence,

          but this makes no real proof of existence; “On the internet, nobody knows you’re a dog". 

          (Can one survive without internet? Without a dog? With a human?)

‘Cause this very face offers or comprises my future nose and my future wrinkles, 

     her tranquillity, acceptance, and naive wisdom,

          as well as his stoic asymmetry and his never-seen, Levantine eyes.

The three of us could become better friends. Beyond walls. In art. In life. Dans les cheveux de la mort.

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* https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Faces_Places_(film) 

Mirjam Dular