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pumpkin poem

era no para ese olor singular
porqué son las cosas que no tienen ninguna muerte
ella estalló el vino feroz
la lluvia encima, y el aire brillante
el sentarse en su eje de balancín que espera su té
ochenta años han pasado, y más
mi hijo es muerto y soy persiana que va
todos se callan a lo largo del potomac

 



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