WEBVTT

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La Bagarede is a place name
in the South of France,

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and this poem is
called La Bagarede.

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I take the dogs into town
and buy chèvre and a bâtard.

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Back at La Bagarede, I eat
this little meal in the dusk

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and sit a long time, until
the swan grows visible,

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trailing her indicated
wings down the horizon,

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and Orion begins to stalk
the last night of the summer.

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The black water I
gulp from the spring

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hits my brain at the root, and
I can hear the giant dark bloom.

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The sunflower is crackling
open, and in the sky,

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the seventh of the
Sisters, she who

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hid herself for shame at having
loved one who dies, is shining.