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writing poetry

eu não queimo nenhum incense
eu vi os archangels em minha maçã-árvore última noite
em todas as coisas não faladas de
havia nunca um som ao lado da madeira mas de uma
simplesmente falando
cão do gingham e o gato do calico
não se aflija que sobre
diz de épocas velhas boas
o único punho clenched levantado e apronta-se
em seus regimentals ásperos
filhas do tempo
vindo para baixo no alvorecer dos montes windless

 



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