The chair
This raw, not painted and left edge,
With several nails in the current,
I consider a kind of injury,
A tear of all fatigue, makeup,
A stab and in the truth of the question,
And all this is surely important …
See for yourself! It's just a raw strap
raw weaving canvas after all,
Capable of hanging raw in the humidity of a midden
Isn't that here on the wall of this bedroom …
In fact, in all these injuries, it is myself that I see,
Scarified by all my haunted,
Which must always stay below
Very soft surface
(Of which there is so pitiful little),
All the garnidations of fine words
Of which, from time to time,
I seem to have been almost capable …
As I was also, it seems,
To make this fresh joint chair
Buffer fiercely,
Brut brush strokes,
At home, four squares
And reliable like these words
Of the pitiful description must now
Try to do it, because that's it.
So should I invite you to agree?
