August First： it was a year ago

    we drove down from St.-Guilhem-le-Désert

    to open the house in St. Guiraud

    rented unseen.  I'd stay； you'd go； that's where

    our paths diverged.  I'd settle down to work，

    you'd start the next month of your Wanderjahr.

    I turned the iron key in the rusted lock

    （it came， like a detective-story clue，

    in a manila envelope， postmarked

    elsewhere， unmarked otherwise） while you

    stood behind me in the midday heat.

    Somnolent shudders marked our progress.  Two

    horses grazed on a roof across the street.

    You didn't believe me until you turned around.

    They were both old， one mottled gray， one white.

    Past the kitchen's russet dark， we found

    bookshelves on both sides of the fireplace：

    Verlaine， L'étranger， Notes from the Underground.

    Through an archway， a fresh-plastered staircase

    led steeply upward.  In a white room stood

    a white-clad brass bed. Sunlight in your face

    came from the tree-filled window.  "You did good."

    We laid crisp sheets we would inaugurate

    that night， rescued from the grenier a wood-

    en table we put under the window.  Date

    our homes from that one， to which you returned

    the last week of August， on a late

    bus， in shorts， like a crew-cut， sunburned

    bidasse.  Sunburned， in shorts， a new haircut，

    with Auden and a racing pulse I'd earned

    by "not being sentimental about

    you，"  I sprinted to "La Populaire."

    You walked into my arms when you got out.

    At a two minute bus stop， who would care？

    "La Populaire" puffed onward to Millau

    while we hiked up to the hiatus where

    we'd left ourselves when you left St. Guiraud

    after an unambiguous decade

    of friendship， and some months of something new.

    A long week before either of us said

    a compromisin

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