So far as history is concerned, there are no doubts. The gallery
of parish priests in this town is comprehensive
and all those deserving of commemoration
occupy suitable places.
There is one exception, however, namely, sleeping dogs.
They are motionless and completely oblivious
of all strangers. Neither a chisel
nor a hand patient enough to do them justice is available, and one
does not feel that the pines grow
out of shifting sands. I stayed close to you
like a dog, a French lap dog,
searching for ruins, making rushes rustle. During the night I watched
the stars and saw a standard
embroidered with a golden thread, among
the bearers a girl I once knew was wearing a sash
across her shapely breast. And a cresset. Also a slogan
entangled in fringes and folds.
“Knowledge is treasure. Like hell it is.”