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thanksgiving poetry

ils me demandent où j'ai été
comme des aigles sur la haute haute
j'ai vu la première poire
le corps peut confiner
ville qui n'est pas une ville
j'ai su le silence des étoiles et de la mer
le jour est fait
à partir du sud à la coupure du jour
dans le port de New York
orage
chère épouse
vers l'arrière, tournez vers l'arrière
le petit pitoyable, porté, visages de rire

 



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