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poem for pastors

per questi bracci bianchi circa il mio collo
non eravamo molti
un miglio dietro
ci sono tre sensi in cui gli uomini prendono
nei numeri mournful
il singolo pugno serrato alzato e ready
e mentre abbiamo camminato l'erba debolmente è stata mescolata
poco parco che attraverso
sotto la luna della raccolta
a volte mi domando se è realmente allineare
li prevedo

 



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