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,

Flaunted the slimed sigil of "security,"

As in this pissant day. “The French Revolution

Is still going on,” Jean-Claude said.

“I love all sorts of booze!’’ 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