(After which, a final touch, there at the end of a grassblade, 2 or 3 points, a slip of the pen? a butterfly? for my pleasure alone cause no one else’d notice.) Long gone, the picture, I expect. Long gone the life I, the boy and the man I, the sleek good sweet-eyed horse Mattone I, the blushing girl I. Long gone, torch bearer Ferara seen from the back, ink on paper folded torn eaten, wasp nest shredded into air burnt away to ash to air to nothing.
