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thanksgiving poem

hay una ciudad, builded por ninguna mano
vea el tentativo
era no para ese olor singular
la oscuridad rueda hacia arriba
cántele otra vez a canción cantado
hago mi cubierta, pero nadie sabe
como él de quién alcohol en el resplandor del mediodía
sacudaro mi pelo en el viento de la mañana
oscilado en la horquilla del profundo
sobre ellas todas, mirando abajo
escuche
quizás no es ninguna materia que usted murió

 



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