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suicide poetry

flores de bebés
paredes y enorme altos
hay una hora del resto pacífico
usted oye la lluvia?
todavía trece años
desdeño a mis amigos más que usted
y pan del breaketh no más
ámeme en el último, o si usted no
soy el viento que duda
en sus brazos estaba el placer inmóvil
dulce y fuerte
velas que derriban de lado en latas del tomate

 



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