I am writing to you from the end of the world.  You must realize this. The trees often tremble.  We collect the leaves.  They have a ridiculous number of veins.  But what for?  There’s nothing between them and the tree any more, and we go off troubled.
     Could not life continue on earth without wind?  or must everything tremble, always, always?
     There are subterranean disturbances, too, in the house as well, like angers which might come to face you, like stern beings who would like to wrest confessions.
     We see nothing, except what is so unimportant to see.
     Nothing, and yet we tremble.  Why?

“Henri Michaux (1899-1984) was  a Belgian poet and painter who wrote in French and became a French citizen.  Michaux traveled all over the world, experimented with drugs, and has written extensively about these experiences.  For sheer invention and imaginative range he is unequaled in the 20th Century”  –Charles Simic & Mark Strand

P1050280First published in 1976 by The Ecco Press, Third Printing, paperbound, 1985

by Alexander