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christmas poem

je descends les chemins de jardin
un stylo d'acier
je suis allé à travers les rues
se reposer dans son culbuteur attendant votre thé
dans toutes les choses non parlées de
hors de moi indigne et inconnu
hors du profond et de l'obscurité
vieux vin à boire
dans le port de New York
pour puis en dehors

 



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