after Baudelaire
I have not forgotten that bone-white house
where town succumbs to countryside,
the lopped statues of Love and Abundance
loitering in baroque undergrowth,
and, near dusk, the tide of the sun,
which, seen through windows streaked with clouds,
resembles an omniscient eye
observing our nuptial feast in silence,
casting the long gaze of its glow
on the empty plates, the torn net curtain.