(the End) - Poem by Leslie Philibert
a river full of dead pigs
a burning moon
a child squatting in mud
was that it then, just that?
no trace of birth
or a cold tuber that might
seek helplessly your hands
wet with drops from a rusty tap
fingernails dark and underlined
that follow the trace of a fleeing star
an escape into the big black
over the wall, over the wall
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