La Bagarede is a place name in the South of France,
and this poem is called La Bagarede.
I take the dogs into town and buy chèvre and a bâtard.
Back at La Bagarede, I eat this little meal in the dusk
and sit a long time, until the swan grows visible,
trailing her indicated wings down the horizon,
and Orion begins to stalk the last night of the summer.
The black water I gulp from the spring
hits my brain at the root, and I can hear the giant dark bloom.
The sunflower is crackling open, and in the sky,
the seventh of the Sisters, she who
hid herself for shame at having loved one who dies, is shining.