'Everyday poems are born
every day has its own morn
and every moment when beauty tiptoes across the road...
why you worry?
the searcher?'
The man in white shirt
and biege trousers
told Francesco...
looking calm and composed
smoking his cheroot...
a whitish bluish smoke...
'Smoking is disallowed here...'
Francesco joked
and took from the brown box
a cheroot...
and the man
the Dean...
the holy man...
smiled...
Outside the sky of California was like a canvas...
it was eight
and the traffic was getting denser...
officegoers were running fast
some might have grabbed a bacon late...
'So...
how far is your work?'
The Dean asked...
'So far...so good
but it is huge...'
Francesco replied...
from his mouth a tiny cloud took a flight...
'Good...
Huge is always good...'
The Dean nodded...
'As huge as a painting perhaps...
as flowing as a river...'
Francesco murmured...
and then in his mind Isabel dropped...
Suddenly...
as if his thoughts
were predestined...
and her he did find
occhio della mente...
she seemed busy
a lot of grocery...
paper bags in her both hands...
and a magic land...
and
Francesco became ignorant
of the papers...
he called the booking agent...
'When is the earliest flight?'
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