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friend poetry

aqueles no superior dizem que o conhecem, terra -- são liars
o que mim lhe devem
nenhuma rapina é mim de pensamentos pobres
glass-blower do tempo
no porto de york novo
fora da janela um mar de árvores verdes
os navios estão encontrando-se na baía
a filha, arte do thou vem morrer
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
quando a noite drifts ao longo das ruas da cidade
velas que toppling lateralmente em umas latas do tomate

 



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