Monet at his Table
The soup is first
Gone in an instant
Rush the tender bitter greens
Cepes and chanterelles glow on the plate ephemerally
The rabbits sacrifice in a terrine is brief
Cezzanne’s bouillabaisse can wait
The split melon is the last
Then
On the Japanese bridge
A world of color and subtle heat erupts
On an untouched canvas
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem