Through a dark winter 
In a cold chambre de bonne 
I lay still and dreamt

And as we lose our grip 
On every real thing in the world 
Settling for its glitter

It was of the things 
Whose corpses eclipse them,
Shellfishes, ostriches, elephants.


But in spring the sun’s 
Swath of reality started going over 
The room daily, like a cleaning woman,