a seemingly boundless store of feeling
awaits recognition in each individually
pretended nonexistence notwithstanding
I am the trumpet cock telephone alarm
is this Italy it is Florence in the morning
the streets freshly washed by beautiful
machines operated by Italian men who
don't see me catch another train and go
much later I know how I must have felt
between the coffee opera monuments of
a better age before ego got the best of us
strawberries in season and Schubert alive
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