20. Arles

20.

Arles

Sometimes it was painting in the dark.
Not that you were dark, dearest, only sometimes opaque.
Then I would hold you close as secrets
And search your face for the gap 
Where moonlight pierces clouds
That I might see you ungirdled in the garden,
That I might see you as you are, unguarded.

Sometimes, witch, you were wheat fields of Arles
With summer smearing honey on your lips.
I could smell earth;
And what I could not smell, I tasted
And what I could not taste my eyes drank in
And what remained seeped through my skin,
And when I heard your little gasp, I also heard
Three sisters dark at the back door,
Stepping in.

They brook no argument; no time for that.
Autumns come. Moons set.

We were at the Cafe Terrace
when a woman next table said,
“Je ne vais rien regretter, même pas toi.”
Our eyes met; we knew she did not mean it.

Autumns come. Moons set.