No, I don’t pick strawberries for you, I
won’t weave sharp glass into your hair,
I don’t polish a conch mirror for you,
when I sit on a gondola, I see
that the features of the cloud are
about to be pierced by the sunlight. The
water is fatal. gray-green
new porcelain blue smoke burning of
my eyes lapel flowers are pale orange
this morning fell to the man station
ears drilled in a diamond-shaped beetle
listen, I do not take you to the lighthouse
will not Planting grass seeds in your head
will not write you a uniform
city, biting one’s forefoot
in vain, telling me that
the people on the golden shore are dying in an orderly manner and entering a long lunar eclipse
with symmetrical karma That desperate old man has darkened his sideburns. He even painted a little rouge. No, I won’t cross this bridge, I won’t touch the corners of your mouth when I wake up, I won’t talk about Venice with you 2009-5-9
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