Letter to Milan Kundera

By | 24 September 2002

Scent of Parisian Autumn blown in by the wind
A doorstep mottled with white and 'Prioritaire'
Inscribed upon the lid; I imagined him
Opening my message in the country:
An escape from the horrors of the everyday world
And other people; in a garden in sunlight
Sundials peppering the lawn, amber peacocks
Strutting in a cornucopia of light and shadow
And defecating on the roses, the roses which
Stretched in military lines through the garden
And beyond, basking in sunshine, my few words,
Hypocrit, I reader, my brother.

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