Poets

He had remembered old conversations with this one and that one, Viaticums which seemed to him to be past use, In a room almost entirely occupied by a baby grand piano,

From Bergen they write: we'll be back before the holidays, we miss you, from the Côte d'Azur: it's hard to love by proxy but still

At the hour when the world ceases to be you will be sitting under a plane-tree half unleafed on a lively, noisy avenue