The Tomb of Stuart Merrill
from Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror (1975)
It is the first soir of March They have taken the plants away. Martha Hoople wanted a big “gnossienne” hydrangea Smelling all over of Jicky for her Card party: the basement couldn’t Hold up all that wildness. The petits fours have left. Then up and spake the Major: The new conservatism is Sitting down beside you. Once when the bus slid past Place Pereire I caught the lens-cover reflection: lilacs Won’t make much difference it said. Otherwise in Paris why You never approved much of my pet remedies. I spoke once of a palliative for piles You wouldn’t try or admit to trying any other. Now we live without or rather we get along without Each other. Each of us does Live within that conundrum We don’t call living Both shut up and open. Can knowledge ever be harmful? How about a mandate? I think Of throwing myself on the mercy of the court.
