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thanksgiving poetry

deixe-me mover-se lentamente através da rua
meu filho está inoperante e eu sou cortina indo
havia um strangeness em seus bordos
faça exame de meus bracelets
dentro de minha mão eu prendo
a mulher faltou-me muito, como você se chama me, chamada
o pitiful pequeno, desgastado, caras rir
o que era ele os motores ditos
quando os mar-ventos perfuraram nossos solitudes

 



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