The marrow of ripened fruit
threaded through a circumstance
that equals a fate
false-toned choir in competition
from the spindle to the shuttle running

it is an old voyage
the lectures on voltage
to recreate
the window's curtains are nylon
from the spindle to the shuttle running

and the gapers stand mouths agape
and there is quiet in the quiet land
but that is far distant from here
as the love of Clodia marks untrue
and there are tones in the mass' murmuring
from the spindle to the shuttle running

an old voyage that follows a thinning thread
the bare bodies of nymphs
crest of waves collapse against a tired shore
stripped of its modest shroud
hysterics of a barren whore
and were are left quite as we were

Toulouse

Is an old man
in slippers
searching the market
for cheap socks
and fruit.
It's hot, he invariably complains
to each vendor
and passerby.
He touches each item
weighs it
dismisses it as shoddy or rotten.
He passes his tired eyes
towards St.Étienne
and the Capital
longing for rococo
but would settle for
baroque.

David Harrison Horton