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Robinson

The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone.

His act is over.

The world is a gray world,

Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano,

The nightmare chase well under way.

The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall,

Reflects nothing at all.

The glass is black.

Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian.

Which is all of the room—walls, curtains,

Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson's first wife,

Rugs, vases panatelas in a humidor.

They would fill the room if Robinson came in.

The pages in the books are blank,

The books that Robinson has read.

That is his favorite chair,

Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here.

All day the phone rings.

It could be Robinson Calling.

It never rings when he is here.

Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun.

Outside, the birds circle

Where trees are actual and take no holiday.

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Weldon Kees

Harry Weldon Kees (February 24, 1914 – disappeared July 18, 1955) was an American poet, painter, literary critic, novelist, playwright, jazz pia…

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Не должно быть сейчас никакой смертной казни. Я сама уже больше 10 лет переживаю травлю с угрозами разными расправами, и смертной казнью в том числе, только мне не пишут, а говорят на словах. (пост прерывается рекламой читайте до конца).
Ещё раз специально для Голливуда.. это природное явление! Или они не замечают специально сильный ветер, который до сих пор дует сильнее и дольше, чем обычно.. 🤷
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