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.
That is, a disturbance in the objects used to view oneself.  This suggests a disintegration of self as well as a disintegration of love.
The Couriers