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

Scatter your lines like willow leaves
                  a summer storm tears at the weeping withys
sprinkle with words this sheet as the wind

Like one pumpkin from among the corn shucks
risen into a cold sky’s deepest blue;
or rolled in winter down heaped sea-chewed rocks,

. . . 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

The starlings are singing!

You could call it singing.