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Kinds of Camouflage For Robert Philen 1. Déjeuner, with Herbs Then I am sitting naked on damp grass (it rained in my yesterday) while two white gentlemen in black frock coats share lunch around me, passing chèvre, cold andouille, and baguettes, passing bon mots in French, in someone’s nineteenth century, my muddled impression of one. I can’t understand a word. There must be a picnic basket somewhere, lined with a red and white checked cloth, some visual cliché, although I know the cloth’s pale blue, pale echo of a sky that isn’t there. They hardly notice me (two men now passing apples, and a bottle of medium quality red wine), or no, I exaggerate, they don’t see me at all, my body naked to the breeze too cold for noon although it may be May; my skin responds in kind and gets no answer. Browned warmth of my flesh tones is quickly cooling, and the day is downcast, overcast: the basket’s been tipped over, grapes, peaches, and some fruit I can’t make out spill over, shadowing green. I hate poems about food. I am a painting by now, varnish smudged and darkening in storage, and getting hungry fast. 48 Shepherd PG:Layout 1 12/20/06 5:27 PM Page 48 2. Field Guide Above the highway we drove home between two hills of snow (from one classical town to another), a bird you couldn’t recognize at first when I asked, What is that? Something trailing confused you, threw you off track, a streamer, scrap of dragon kite, festoon or crimson plume. Oh, it’s a red-tailed hawk, with something caught I can’t make out. Dinner, anyway. A piece of will defeated in the wind, some little life’s fluttered surrender. Perhaps a red squirrel, rare color around here (you told me that), I could have thought, but didn’t. The hawk won’t be hungry for long, we’re almost home. It will be again. 49 Shepherd PG:Layout 1 12/20/06 5:27 PM Page 49 ...

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