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poem for dad

cidade que não é uma cidade
todos quiet ao longo do potomac
levantou-se e o âmbar era o por do sol no rio
porque são as coisas que não têm nenhuma morte
pássaros de encontro ao vento de abril
eu vi os archangels em minha maçã-árvore última noite
vivido pelo river-side
como selvagem, como bruxa-como estranho que a vida deve ser
sentar-se em seu balancim que espera seu chá

 



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