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black poetry

il était un jeune oysterman grand
dans la sphère
tous ces trésors qui se trouvent
y a il quiconque lĂ 
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
l'obscurité
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
ceux sur le supérieur indiquent qu'elles vous connaissent, la terre -- elles sont des menteurs
ont eu lui et I mais réuni
du soleil ni des étoiles

 



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