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death poetry

tengo que decir buonas noches
caras hermosas, tragical
vea, ellos vuelven
plantemos
bucks negros gordos en un cuarto del vino-barril
debajo de un árbol de la castańa que se separa
sé no dónde
si había sabido el estrecho una prisión es amor
ruidos que se esfuerzan rasgarse
los poetas dicen
él incluso tendría su broma
una tormenta está montando en la marea
el cuerpo puede confinar
pájaros contra el viento de abril

 



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