Go for another it's your storehouse
its small domestic doors, your practices,
showing little impedance.. Let it
run, unfurl, Willy the loose triangle
likes it, edge on to the wind..
And so one day he stood back
il pappagallo on his shoulder
(six feet up), on a hillside,
bitter a little, netted.. the north
had a Caribean look about it,
a rhythm grew up. (I have this
more or less reliable grown rhythm)
il pappagallo drops away, shallow,
banks, returns, so brightly
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