Toulouse



Kestrels in a wall.
At Montsegur I was warned
of coup de soleil

and re-applied my shirt,
saw a lizard,
ate out on a square before a mystery play

foie gras,
magret de canard, giblets, chips in a pepper sauce
and salad - 'c'est copieuse' -

at Roquefixade,
up through a passage, a bell toll
from above the village,

the sound of slipping rubble,
my girlfriend peering
through a lens at a cornflower

refound my calm
under a yellow parasol
before a pression, piperade, cheese and meats.

In Niaux, the bison and horses
thrown against the cave walls
like constellations.