It comes at three and the Rhône runs upstream. All the quay lamps disappear by Pont du Trinquetaille at quarter past.
Those awake undream the long miles home and those dreaming learn to walk again as all glass turns back to breath and sand.
So much depends upon the undoing that the five loaves and two fishes are left untouched, undivided.
So much depends upon the light of Arles that the sun and sea are reborn as new planets of yellow and blue.
But what’s done is undone: the Rhône downstream, lamps ablaze. The ominous is nothing but a backward miracle.
Twelve baskets of leftovers. A bandaged ear, and what seems to be Mount Fuji. When it goes, there is a great calm.