Stare. Stare until the canvas begins to tilt and shimmer,
until the moment the four sharing a forest picnic

stir and bite into succulent peaches and plums.
Did I enter from the front or from the sunlit meadow

beyond? The meadow, I think. What happened to
the Musée d'Orsay? Is the giant clock still pulsing?

Do I have a time limit here? Am I clothed or naked?
Have I come with another cornucopia?  Filled with

grapes or cherries? It's warm, but I'm quite content.
Instead of déjeuner, I shall roll in the grass

with a bearded man. Then, even more content, I'll
lick peach juice from my lips, wipe it from my chin.


Thanks to which published this poem.