This face that was mine Poem by Marie de Quatrebarbes

This face that was mine, rubbed hard with Mustela, contains the sum of the stuck-on faces; and the cake of a moment returns with its containers full of holes

I poured them out, I poured them out

you improve yourself, I invent a joy for myself, if this courage is mine and you hold my hand tight, the colour approaches multiple flashes at once

I form with my mouth the word for something, I un-remember, a hole is accentuated