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Extrait : Winter’s the thing. A place to lay one’s head. To sleep at last to sleep. Blue on flesh in snow light, iced boughs overhead. This is a poem about breath, brick, a piece of ink in the distance. Winter’s the thing I miss. The font is still. A fanfare of stone air. |
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voir aussi : Lecture / rencontre avec Peter Gizzi (Manifestations) lire aussi : Revival 80 écouter : All the Stories I Wrote Are True Because I Believe in What I Saw Not Withstanding with Stood Mirage Like The Master of The Cante Jondo |