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suicide poetry

nós não éramos muitos
talvez
um poeta, fazendo exame do breio fora de sua lingüeta
em seus braços estava o prazer imóvel
há uns ganhos para todas nossas perdas
eu quero saber onde você vive
com os olhos meek, marrons
minha mãe twines me as rosas molhadas com orvalho
um com você
que possibilidade spiteful rouba unawares
muito bem, você liberais

 



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