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POEMS

The Fig-Trees of Italy

Sadly, and so like a man, jumping from one square to the next, I can see you, but I can’t express it. An awful lot of young partridges and young doves will say it.
That’s what I can’t say, what I want to say.

You have the cambala annulata, the Kyrie eleison. I can say the names. It’s the words that bother me. Better without words. Better with my eyes closed. And the windows open.
In the early summer among the fig-trees of Italy.

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  • Home
  • About
  • Books
  • Poems
    • Torch Lake
    • Confederacy
    • The King's English
    • Domestic Affairs
    • Window Seat
  • News
  • Contact