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math poem

o que nós fará agora
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
escuro-eyed
era muitas e muito um ano há
ao longo de um river-side
pela ponte rude
quando o véu dos olhos for levantado
como águias na elevação ascendente
deus
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
pôde tê-lo sabido na mola mais adiantada
o cheiro do levantou-se assim falso, os espinhos assim verdadeiros
de repente, fora das maneiras escuras e frondosas
desolado e solitário

 



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