In the middle of selected spring nights,
After midnight, when Aix sleeps,
The Italians above me, man and woman,
Make love, rock in the ancient rhythm,
Rock my ceiling, rock my building,
Rock my neighborhood, rock all Aix.

They do not rock once: instead
Their several rockings create a larger rocking,
Rocking the night itself,
Until about four,
Until the little time
Before the fishmonger and butcher begin their proper rites.

The lovers do not cry out, but
I think they murmur to each other
As they rock and rock again
The secret names of love.

---James Bolner, Sr.
Aix-en-Provence, June, 1986