I.r.p. Testo

Testo I.r.p.

This orange illuminated street
runs parallel to the backyard
Grandma
bony racehound summer
twilight.
Georgia fields stuck in a post world war
an L.A. alley at alarm clock four
with some screenplay writer
sulking on the floor.
Skeleton shards on a European shore.
Seeping over.
Slate gray Irish horizon.

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