It is said that after he was seventy
Ingres returned to the self-portrait

A sentence continues after thirty years
it wakes in the silence of the same room

The delectable names of harsh places:
Cilicia Aspera, Estremadura.
In that smooth wave of cello-sound, Mojave,

Believed only in art.
Believed in tête-à-têtes.
Believed in walks to the top of the hill.

not the water that ran with the days
and runs with them now

How could he answer? How could anyone be
as beautiful as his mother. He had to lie
because he had to.

We were unencumbered then by the likes
Of hope—a childish thing yet put away

The night refills itself.
Limestone drops to the sea
that varies blue all day

Just put a wineglass and some wine in front of me;
Words will fall out of my mouth like apple blossoms.

This is the enclosure my family
has dreamed of, and brought into being