Wandering with you the shore
Which parallels our river
Like a second thought,

Cold fog hovers in the coastal highlands
Mixed with lingering rain. The inert stream
Quickens: water fingers the creekbed sands,

The lovers lie in trouble in the park.
The cold fall draws the leaves to earth around them.
Good angels of these lovers, come, surround them,

Oie Cythaera
Land out of which I might never have
Limped into this day which holds me now

Here is a room with heavy-footed chairs,
A glass bell loaded with wax grapes and pears,

A polished table, holding down the look

Arachne laughed. “You wartier than a toad
old crone, what do you know of artwork, ragged
hag, calling me too beautiful and bold

I turn to enter, turning from those frozen
Sunfields, when I see the rage of flakes,
Diminished into shaves of gold, and streaming

                                         In Montmartre, far from the sea he loved, crippled 
                                         by arthritis, Corbière nailed up over his chimney 
                                         the dried carcass of a toad.

“The August heat invades my lady’s chamber:
Italian afternoons, madame, are long,
And life more passionate, and lust less wrong,

Grim, and surrendered to their purposes,
their tangibilities of pulp or stone,
the houses, chairs and tables rise again—