After lunch our family exited by the long,
Whispering table in the window.
Knives down, forks,
No chewing, no replenishment--
But an untoward whirr
Low in the warm air-something like a slow-moving fog,
Purple and dirty.
Leigh explained that, especially in the small towns
Of Mexico,
Where it was polite, people whose eyes met
Said, "Buen provecho."
It means: Hey, dig in. But more broadly, and
More spiritually,
It means, It's yours now--and I have seen you, and we share this.
Rescued together from less, but separated, in a kind of fenced in sky.
No later than now, all these things I love--and they're gone.
I had spent a part of the morning thinking of a Gustav Klimt
Picture, the fur-collared model standing black against the
Somber gold of the evening snow.
I couldn't get that snow out of my head--
How ephemeral and fixed it fell,
As if bleating clouds, leaping the fence,
Each being counted on its drowsy way.
