Walking into pictures, some of us perch
on the haywain, like a TV ad, happy
to be in a world of trees and sweet smells,
and maybe somewhere young women waiting.
It would be difficult to walk into Picasso,
avoiding the one-eyed people and the bulls,
escaping the swift cloak with one leap,
waiting in vain for a note from the blue guitar.
All the tired businessmen might creep
into the massive bosoms of Rubens’ ladies,
and lie curled there, bedded down
until the next dull board-room meeting.
I walk up Utrillo’s street. Only a few people
pass idly on the pavement, the balconies
are neatly arranged on the first white building.
A pity Saint Severin is locked, but no matter.
It is quiet, and the trembling branches pattern
the walls, the ornate lamp-post fits well
into the hollow of my back as I wait
for the restaurant to open, to take some wine.
Walking into pictures, it is hard to return
without hay on the cuff, the beast’s smell,
powder on the paunchy suit, the imprint
of a wine-glass stem, backward into to-day.
