Giovanni Franchi

The threewomen who all walked In the same dress And it had falling ferns on it Skipped parallel To the progress Of Giovanni Franchi Giovanni Franchi’s wrists flicked Flickeringly as he flacked them His wrists explained things Infectiously by way of his adolescence His adolescence was all there was of him Whatever was left was rather awkward His adolescence tuned to the tops of trees Descended to the fallacious nobility Of his first pair of trousers They were tubular      flapped friezily The color of coppered mustard What matter Were they not the first No others could ever be the first again The ferns on the flounces of the threewomen Began fading as she thought of it Tea table problems for insane asylyms Are démodé Démodé Allow us to rely on our instincts The threewomen was composed of three instincts Each sniffing divergently directed draughts The first instinct    first again    (may Renascent gods save us from the enigmatic Penetralia of Firstness) Was to be faithful to a man       first The second       to be loyal to herself first She would have to find which self first The third which might as well have been first Was to find out how many toes the Philosopher Giovanni Bapini had       first Giovanni Franchi hooligan-faced and latin-born You imagine what he looked like Looked as nearly as he could as the Philosopher looked His articulations were excellent Still    where Giovanni Bapini was cymophanous Giovanni Franchi was merely pale He scuttled winsomely To its distribution from a puffer For the declaration of War His acolytian sincerity The sensitive down among his freckles Fell in with the patriotic souls of flags Red white and green flags      fillipping piazzas When the “National Idea” arrived on the Milan Express Continually cutting off an angle from Paschkowski’s Through plate-glass swingings To look as busy bodily As the philosopher’s brain was As Giovanni Bapini importuned mobs From monumental gums To the sparky detritus From the hurried cigarette Of his disciple Whose papa and mama kept a trattoria Audaciously squatting right opposite the Pitti Palace The Pitti Palace however stolid      could hardly help noticing Being an aristocrat it went on looking As plainly piled up as ever The Pitti Palace has never been known to mention the trattoria Or mention Giovanni Franchi Sitting in it At a book It could not see from that distance Giovanni watching the munchers supporting his parents With an eye On assuring himself Of their sufficient impression By erudition He was so young That explains so much No book ever explained what to be young is But they look so much more important for that Giovanni was in continuous ecstacy Induced by the imposing look of them When Giovanni Bapini spoke of them He could not tell How completely more precious Would be such knowledge As how many toes the philosopher Giovanni Bapini had Now the threewomen For pity’s sake Let us think of her as she    to save time Seeing the minor Giovanni Sitting at the major Giovanni’s feet Made sure he must be counting his toes All to the contrary    he was picking the philosopher’s brains Happy in the security that when he had done He would still be youthful enough to sort out his own He listened at the elder’s lips That taught him of earthquakes and Of women— His manners were abominable He would kill a woman Quite inconspicuously it is true And neglect to attend her funeral I mean the older man And what he told Giovanni Franchi About these pernicious persons Was so extremely good for him It entirely spoilt his first love-affair To such an extent          it never came off We have read of Trattoria    meaning eating house. Piazzas    or squares The Pitti Palace    enormous And Paschkowski’s      for beer All are in Firenze Firenze is Florence Some think it is a woman with flowers in her hair But NO       it is a city with stones on the streets Giovanni Bapini often said Everybody in Firenze knows me And everybody did Excepting—That is      she didn’t She never knew what he was Or how he was himself Yet she uniquely was the one To speculate      upon the number of his toes The days growing longer Fulfilling her of curiousity She made a moth’s net Of metaphor and miracles And on the incandescent breath of civilizations She chased by moon-and-morn light Philosopher’s toes As virginal      as had he never worn them Clear of ‘white marks means money’ All quicks and cores They fluttered to her fantasy Fell into her lap While she gathered her ferny flounces about them They inappropriately passed But Giovanni Franchi was there He almost winked it at her That he was there His eyes were intrepid with phantom secrets The Philosopher had flung to him And as she tripped by him She guessed      these all All    but the number of those toes She made diurnal pilgrimage To the trattoria To eat Trout    that might have been trained for circuses If minarets    grew in miniature whirlpools And mayonnaise       that helped her to forget That what is underneath       need never matter She put all minor riddles out of her Such as What was the under-cover of Franchi’s book Telling to the plaid pattern of the tablecloth Too shy to interrogate She sent ambassadors To the disciple They returned Oh rats Quite manifest    that Giovanni Franchi Some semieffigy Damned by scholiums Knew no more      how many toes— Than      Giovanni Bapini knew himself