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thanksgiving poetry

ich gehe meine Weise complacently
warum dann, Muß wir? sieht
ich brenne keinen Duft
auf und ab geht ihn
sehr gut Sie Liberale
Glück
babylon -- wo ich gehe zu träumen
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
ein kleiner Pfirsich im Obstgarten wuchs
möglicherweise ist es gleichgültig, das Sie starben
es gibt keine Menge, gleichwohl aufgepaßt und geneigt
alle beruhigen entlang dem potomac
nie in meinem ganzem Leben

 



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