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autumn poem

j'ai dit
course haut-soutenue
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
élever, comme vent a soufflé
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
plantons
tous en dedans et tous sans moi
je verrai une étoile ce soir
gros mâles noirs dans une salle de vin-baril

 



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