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fall poetry

città che non è una città
due file dei cavoli
sopra loro tutte, osservando giù
se lo slayer rosso pensa slays
un poet, prendente il freno fuori della sua linguetta
ho lanciato il mondo
con gioia e wonder
su e giù va
fra il fumo e nebbia di un pomeriggio di dicembre
la festività reale è stata fatta
il mio figlio è guasto e sono ciechi andanti
ho vinto la corsa

 



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