THE FRENCH MASTERS VISIT ME 
THIS SPRING IN UNSEASONABLE RAIN

1.

The water burns like the age of a rock,
the lip of a window, the tongue of a mouth.
Char stands on the edge of a leaf-blade.
This is his disappearing trick. This is the muscle
that flicks its tail within the words,
this is the dark deeps, the stars, the nightwinds,
the house of lupins: moon like a thumbprint; moon like the tongue
thirst out in anger; moon like light
clinging to an apricot petal.

Prevert coughs into his absinthe,
pressing down his blue suit of air,
running blue fingers through his white hair:
old lusts, old passions. The masters cluster at the window,
demanding the only truth we have
within this truth. All night I hear
what I do not hear, just speech, these old,
borrowed words, what we build with slow care, the sun.