When I unclench my hand the wound
is wicked. Is this dream sent
by that wedding guest who slipped me
an IOU twelve years ago, a wound

to tighten the groin, the thumb-flesh
loose around the bones like stewed chicken?
I stand here, coming apart, awake,

breathing rosemary and lavender
and the fleshly river smell. Boules
clack in the dirt of the broken cloisters,
the mill-race roars under the stones.

Behind the twisted mullions, Adalasis,
Bella Donna of the violet eyes
dances a passadoble with her shadow.

Wings slap the river, the black Agout.
Silver flecks the granite. A tambourine
nudges the afternoon. She lifts a slow
wrist, an elbow. Her bright braids swing.

Beneath a rust-streaked calvary
the bride and bridesmaids pose.
The men confer around a ribboned
sportscar in a blue fog of Gitanes.

The grinning priest shakes hands.
I move gingerly, like a beekeeper,
lifting this or that out of the smoke

and swarm of what once was,
the warm pain leaking from a hand
given away and damaged beyond repair.