27.

The sea scrubs the rock, the clouds on the cape

Hang, the water swelling, ashimmer,

Sun, high over Africa, blinds even over

The white sky: you sit looking out

Your sweater cumulus, your hair filaments,

The wine as golden. The dogs frolic, chase, laze

As only the Midi can afford them.

The crowds from the Calanques muster

Into the port. The woman next to us

Has lips swollen from collagen

For reasons only her biographer knows

Or those who set the standards for films.

She does not need that, Ariadne left

Amid the maze of cafés: you, I speechless.