Sometimes in the evening I see
coming toward me, from a distance,
a kind of blossom: huge, blue, nodding

How strange to see their faces start to worry
Into ours, and after all those years
We spent pretending we had made a life

The sun’ s suspended like a drop of amber
Above the crescent of a colonnade.
And he is standing on a gravel path

There is a space abandoned here,
to this room, as to a panting dog;
and a sound, like scissors

Eternal Aphrodite, Zeus’s daughter, throne
Of inlay, deviser of nets, I entreat you:
Do not let a yoke of grief and anguish weigh

Spheroid
Fruit, pleasing
To taste, fattened
By water gushing in all

my eyes—
back there
in the mirror

a man stands
on his
head one

French poets are the greatest of all.
They arrive with different smiles. 
They are used to the sun and to coffee. 

In the middle of night 
in Brightlingsea