Los poemas de Horacio E. Cluck

Poetry is the wall where the non-casual object lives, not yet burned, that splendid effusion spider. The invalid laughs his pause and grows him yedras, verbs of clean architecture to foreshadow the spoils of things, truces of pain or empty lamps. Whoever there listens to pleasure to be diluted between their English, and ignores the risk of amnesia, will be happy, will be happy, will be happy. Poetry surrounds your hands, the friend who bleeds -- Page 4 of cover.