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brother poem

il était un jeune oysterman grand
pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
il y avait un strangeness sur vos lčvres
le long des banques
regardez dehors sur les étoiles, mon amour
il parle pas bien
quand je suis retourné au coucher du soleil
passé persistant de thou
la agonie d'avoir trop de puissance
ŕ l'aube, il a dit
je meurs
son gris bascule toujours la tour au-dessus de la mer
je remplis cette tasse

 



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