How beatiful to think
that each of these clean secretaries
at night, to please her lover, takes
a fountain into her mouth
and lets her insides, drenched in seed,
flower into landscapes:
meadows sprinkled with baby's breath,
hoarse twiggy woods, birds dipping, a multitude
of skies containing clouds, plowed eart stinking
of its up turned humus, and small farms each
with a silver silo.
Splitting a bottle of white wine
with a naked woman
in te middle of the day.
I sometimes fear thaht I shall never view
a French film lacking Gérard Dépardieu.
John Updike, Poemas. Pre-textos, 2002.