The word of a snail on the plate of a leaf?
It is not mine. Do not accept it.
Acetic acid in a sealed tin?
Do not accept it. It is not genuine.
A ring of gold with the sun in it?
Lies. Lies and a grief.
Frost on a leaf, the immaculate
Cauldron, talking and crackling

All to itself on top of each
Of nine black Alps.
A disturbance in mirrors,
The sea shattering its grey one--
Love, love, my season.
There seems to be a sarcastic edge to these lines, conveying the sinister charm of her ex-lover, “the immaculate / Cauldron,” and mocking his self-absorbed arrogance, “All to itself on top of each / Of nine black Alps.” 

The Couriers