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mother poem

je me tiens par temps gris froid
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
oranges de plumaison nubian bleu-noires
dans le port de New York
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
indéfiniment
ŕ partir du sud ŕ la coupure du jour
je la pense splendide juste
j'ai vu que vous hunched et tremblant sur les pierres
la nuit était noire et triste

 



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