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thanksgiving poem

Material des Mondes
wie ich innen roofed liege, innen aussortiert
sie kennt eine preiswerte Freigabe
gestiegen von den Toten
der Himmel
über dem Fluß winken sie zu mir zu
es gibt kein Entweichen durch den Fluß
und während wir gingen, wurde das Gras schwach gerührt
fette schwarze Dollars in einem Wein-Faßraum
durch die ausgedehnten schmerzende Brust der Masse
ich liebe mein Leben, aber nicht zu gut

 



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