Dear Ste. Odile,
Do you not see the point?
I chose you quite by chance
My sheer sister
From among all the others
To be the gnomon
Whose measured shadow falls
On all my delicate sorrows
I was thinking only
Of the sharp beauty
That you sew into the sky
Why did you draw me
An arbitrary pilgrim?
For I lost myself
In the high dwindling
Of your Gothic schemes
As you raised
Your long, ascetic finger
Warning the insouciant
streets
To behave and pay attention
YOU MIGHT ALSO LIKE
Still Life, Still Sacred
Renaissance painters would use life-sized wooden dolls called manichini to study how drapery folds on the human…
Letters
I am writing not to address any particular article, but rather to register my concern about the…
While We’re At It
Propaganda: misleading and biased portrayal of facts, often used to inculcate and reinforce an ideology or political…
