Everyone’s poems have birds in except mine. Bastone! The rods split into two. In my dream I dreamed I was reading my poems as badly as this I’m glad it was just a dream. In a dark wood my piaggio did tumble down more than any other tree. Then they’re rubbish, the dells filled with dew again. Those happy days after the legions left. Rifiuti! Pale villagers them be in their homes who want for berries. I have seen the rest of the hedge and are all rhubarb. Two countrymen discussing grapes, two librans, the pines the pines. Rugiada, little girl, I don’t know which is touched more my vag or my heart.