From the top floor of an old Hôtel,
Tranced,
I gaze down at the narrow rue de Beaune.
Hawkers chant their wares liturgically:
Hatless women in black shawls
Carry long loaves-Triptolemos in swaddling clothes:
Workmen in pale blue:
Barrows of vegetables:
Busy dogs:
They come and go
They are very small.
[Excerpt]