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death poetry

pourquoi faites-vous toujours stand tremblant là
babylon -- où je vais rêver
dans le port de New York
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
pour puis en dehors
tandis que je tenais l'écoute, discrètement sourde-muette
se déclenchant vers le haut, tombant vers le bas
soudainement, hors des manières foncées et feuillues
l'air est comme un papillon

 



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