Poets

Another winter has not vanquished your absence. The sunset will come back and it is as if you were still the weary silhouette that submits to being possessed by a smile

After I devoutly kneeled as was wont to do Fra Angelico, before painting the serene sky of ancient Florence, I have not found beauty.

The letters friends write you; the egg-white of the moon, camped so many times behind the little curtain with angels in the library; the balusters where pigeons come to mate