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He does not think
about the water
he walks
beside. He walks
without it. Another
river. The Sambre.
His mother’s
suicide by drowning,
her nightdress a
veil around her face—
but that’s another
painting. This is
the Rue Morgue,
levitation, the corpse
laid bare. He does not
think about her. She
is a disquieting muse.
He leaves her behind
on the bridle-path, walks
on alone. Apples &
umbrellas will
eventually overtake him.
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