The Dangling Decameron

Some kind of Boccaccio they open The Book, borrowing thoughts and stories from muses, for it is a tome in its entirety, each muse, a Page, unamused, to be plucked from tomb, those sepia petals thrown up in the air, unravel, the yarns like confetti, land at the feet of others weeds and rows of perennials, who bend like willows backwards, they watch unhooded falcons soar up against the sky, all shades of colour the ever-moving clouds like music, divine, pull them up as if on strings threaded through needlepoint of a sharper mind, they are carried away, drugged, making wishes, like dandelions blowing each the other, they become - more - storks, each a story, undone, sewn and seeded for the larger Ovid in exchange for kinder souls they dangle, each and every one their spines entitled, The Decameron opened up, lives fluttering, they are read as the in-betweens some Prencipe Galeotto engaged with Dante’s trust Candide Diderot. ‘24 Page stork, stalk the Decameron Prencipe Galeotto Dante Ovid