(Cluny Museum, Paris)How weary it must beof remaining in full bloomfor eight centuries, perfectlyerect on its thornless stem.What if it it should yieldto the blandishments of decayone day and begin to drop its petals,first the wide outer rows,then the middle layers,delicate as eyelids,and the smallest, fallingwith a soft cry of releaseinto the glittering dustbefore astonished... Continue Reading →

At the end of the road on the island,indecipherable ruins, the penetratingessence of sage and thyme.You are alone with the stony heat,scoured of thought.The sea crashing into jagged cavesand sliding back, tireless,the blond sand and the emptiness,once heard, will hold you forever,stranger, on this island where the road ends. More from this Author Read More... Continue Reading →