Renoir at the end painting with brushes strapped to his hand—

arthritic, crippled—his palette aroused to crepuscular

pinks, oranges, reds, his nudes ever more voluptuous—

Imagine him tucking a counterpane under his beard, coughing, 

whispering flowers at death; and the plump middle-class Parisiennes,

the Great War being over, continuing

their wholesome pleasures, their picnics,

their flirtations, their baths,

like roses, like sunflowers, like peonies.