A cherry colored picture hat
of Tagal straw, its only trimming
a black and white big windmill bow

Thank you for your letter
and its extenuations.

where droop the little ivy shoots
the sun slants down to kiss
the heaps of mellow headstones

an orange devours
the crusts of clouds and you,
getting up, put on

. . . and the curtain rose in that theatre so long ago
and the music is playing
the first song I fell in

Serene and purple twilight of the South
the wind-distorted olives
so dim beside the road

A thin brown stain 
down the white brick wall 
I guess yes 

Look, Mitterand baby, your telegram
of condolence to Yves
Montand tells it like it is

on Greenwich Avenue 
staring down Jane Street 
into the sunset 

The smell of snow, stinging in nostrils as the wind lifts it from a beach
Eye-shuttering, mixed with sand, or when snow lies under the street lamps and on all