In Deux-Sèvres

In a field of sunflowers in Deux-Sèvres

Around the end of the last century

The cabin of a defunct Caravelle stood,

Perhaps one we had flown in thirty years

Before, converted now into a rural pub

Or nightclub, not far from where we were

At Bois-Râteau. The great world had shrunk

From which we travelled so carelessly

By Caravelle or Comet between cities,

Unbothered, then, by jacks-in-office

Pawing through one’s stuff

In the sacred name of "security,"

As we are today. “The French Revolution

Is still going on,” Jean-Claude said.

“I love all sorts of alcohol!’’ We spoke of Saint-Just. He lit a bonfire in the yard.

“Ça bouffe tout!” Ursula said, pouring Clorox

Down the clogged drain. “This eats everything!”

After the rain, people went hunting snails

Along the country roads, and we went, too.

May 16, 2026