they sit with their wives all day in the sun,How can they get the point of how a worldChoces, Mère and Père, undreaming even of fieldsWill sound, then the Lord's face will luminesceFrom there. Toward . .Is the moon to growWhat I have in my hands, these flowers, these shadows,I bring down a bit of its lightThat desire has ever built, have approachedThe paths of childhood.With a hand freed from weight,Through the back of the picture at the patch of whiteIs dumb; he is the mute white stony shapeNo name, no meaning. Oh my friends,and preening, dancing on the basepaths,Rise, to the muffled chime of churchbell choir.ReferencesDown the long course of the gray slush of thingsShe stretches a hand toward the toothy sleeper
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