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thanksgiving poetry

je meurs
avec le rouge de sang de lèvres et le coeur de la pierre
bougies se renversant en longueur dans des bidons de tomate
ma douleur, quand elle est ici avec moi
dans votre vol
vous ĂŞtes clair
une ombre grise mince sur le bord de la pensée
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
dans le port de New York
ma mère m'a enseigné que chaque nuit
sous la lune de moisson
beaux, tragical visages

 



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