me on your little break in the light that scatters
the reflection of a day in often dense and smooth ruffled green
melts
now my every moment
I quivered in the breath and slow down to the
premises of my summer evenings the park
those few things that remain on our mattress
lying on the ground next to the terrace on the third floor of
via Marco Polo speaks
but my voice is fast
Tarlati blue smoke
I look at you then say - I like that
wrinkle (in a whisper)
- which one?
- the one that comes when you smile ...
in marine scent up the stairs: April
me rummages
remove bile and infests a forest far
profiles clear his head in innocence
unconsciousness port
honest sigh
subtle textures in which light remains engraved
only trace of an avenue of cypress trees and an expanse of open
passes over a distance of vineyards and olive groves
Eyes blacks who laughs and you
that cuts the nets.
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