Slowly my body grows a single sound, slowly I become a bell, an oval, disembodied vowel, I grow, an owl, an aureole, white fire poesia "Metamorfosi, I. Luna
The first thing we have to do is get rid of the pentameter. To ditch the pentameter.
When poems are no good they don't make any sense.
Time is the metre, memory the only plot.
Damn wind shift sudden as a woman mind.
She's a rare vase, out of a cat's reach, on its shelf.