Since my last post here…
…life… and spring without fanfare.
And meanwhile: Whatever snow there was is now long gone. And the sun is as loyal as ever, behind or before the clouds. And night, too, falling upon us quietly.
All without fanfare.

In the Métro full of commuters the other morning a man was selling what I thought was just another publication, the usual cheap guide to restaurants or the history of Métro stations. Then I listened for a moment and realized it was something different: « Trois poèmes voluptueux: La muse singulière. » And so it was, three « voluptuous » poems, by Toulet, Gautier, Baudelaire, photocopied on a folded page for €1.
I bought it.
One small effort to « keep the world safe for poetry »?
Or maybe it helped keep the world safe for the guy selling it? Or not?
Or maybe it was just a chance to read Baudelaire’s poem « Les bijoux » on the way to work the other morning.
Without fanfare.