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thanksgiving poem

bonito
bucks pretos gordos em um quarto do vinho-tambor
acima dos prados ricos com milho
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
sabe uma liberação barata
vocĂŞ diz que vocĂŞ me ama
porque o faça sempre carrinho que tirita lá
porque sĂŁo as coisas que nĂŁo tĂŞm nenhuma morte
nos salões do sono você vagueou perto
melhore do que o granito

 



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