Mantz Yorke
Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe

          After Manet

Below the drystone wall, the hay
is near to cutting. A tablecloth, lightly sprung,
undulates between crumb-strewn plates,
empty cans, and the apples you brought
but we didn’t eat.

Across the fields a tractor’s puttering . . .

                                                                    Still time,

lying by your shadow, feeling
grass scratching on my skin;

                                                                    still time

before a school bell rings
and a triple-seven comes home;

                                                                    still time.

Yet the grass is trembling                      silently

                                                                    and softly

                                                                    I am crying

                                                                           and you are crying:

                                                                    how close,

                                                                           how very close,

                                                                    the sense of an ending.