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thanksgiving poetry

eu era um goddess ere o mármore me encontrou
o rolo sad do cilindro muffled tem a batida
para eu era um conselheiro gaunt, grave
são você vivo?
têm você não ouvido
glooms dos viv-carvalhos
os poetas dizem
nas manhãs nuvem-cinzentas
esta bacia de prata antiga de meus
tem por muito tempo a luz solar do verão brilhada
sad são que sabem não o amor
em uma câmara velha iluminou-se macia
quando eu estive escutar, discreetly dumb
rosas e ouro

 



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