The snails have made a garden of green lace: broderie anglaise from the cabbages, chantilly from the choux-fleurs, tiny veils – I see already that I lift the blind upon a woman's wardrobe of the mind. Such female whimsy floats about me like a kind of tulle, a flimsy mesh, while feet in gumboots pace the rectangles – garden abstracted, geometry awash – an unknown theorem argued in green ink, dropped in the bath. Euclid in glorious chlorophyll, half drunk. I none too sober slipping in the mud where rigged with guys of rain the clothes-reel gauche as the rangy skeleton of some gaunt delicate spidery mute is pitched as if listening; while hung from one thin rib a silver web – its infant, skeletal, diminutive, now sagged with sequins, pulled ellipsoid, glistening. I suffer shame in all these images. The garden is primeval, Giovanni in soggy denim squelches by my hub, over his ruin shakes a doleful head. But he so beautiful and diademed, his long Italian hands so wrung with rain I find his ache exists beyond my rim and almost weep to see a broken man made subject to my whim. O choir him, birds, and let him come to rest within this beauty as one rests in love, till pears upon the bough encrusted with small snails as pale as pearls hang golden in a heart that know tears are a part of love. And choir me too to keep my heart a size larger than seeing, unseduced by each bright glimpse of beauty striking like a bell, so that the whole may toll, its meaning shine clear of the myriad images that still – do what I will – encumber its pure line.