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autumn poem

cette cuvette argentée antique du mien
la neige chuchote au sujet de moi
le pré rampait
là où je trouvez-vous
la foudre a clignoté, et s'est soulevée
à l'aube, il a dit
la fille, art de thou viennent pour mourir
un poèt, ayant pris le frein outre de sa langue
dans pouvez
il y a d'un que ce I par le passé a aimé tellement
oiseaux contre le vent d'avril

 



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