Swallows
in the café on Rue Lepic, I sit with a little green fairy in front of me, the absinthe gone louche and cloudy now, a slow swirling storm in the glass that brings its own dull and necessary release from the absolute. the flavours move through the mouth in their old way — fennel, star
Lucky Luke
I dragged myself along the canal path through snow that rose to the ankles, pure and untouched, no one across it yet. the cold cut at my face with a slow, steady insistence, the way old debts come back in the dark. ahead, one yellow smear of light leaked from a porthole, warm-looking, false-looking, the