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concrete poetry

roulez-moi vers le bas par le pré
cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
pas du monde large de totalité
dans leurs regimentals loqueteux
une vie sur la vague d'océan
dites-moi pas
avec le coucher du soleil
hors de la mer de scintillement
ville qui n'est pas une ville

 



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