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.
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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