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prose poetry

je ne brûle aucun encens
peu de porte a été atteinte enfin
son visage est juste et lisse et bon
mon fils est mort et je suis aveugle allant
à l'aube, il a dit
je vous attends
j'ai vu les archangels dans mon pomme-arbre la nuit passée
foncé-eyed
un dieu
dans le port de New York
serene d'après-midi et lumineux verts

 



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