The Poem Is Sad Because It Wants

Once You've Lived In France, You Don't Want To Live Anywhere Else, Including France.

Will Occur As Time Grows More Open About It.

You Stupefied Me. We Waxed, Carnivores, Late And Alight In The Beaded Winter. All Was Ominous, Luminous.

Imagine A Painter Crucified By His Subject!

And The Way Though Discontinuous, And Intermittent, Sometimes Not Heard Of For Years At A Time, Did, Nonetheless, Move Up, Although, To His Surprise It Was Inside The House, And Always Getting Narrower.