Not far from the unexpected embrace of great-hearted hospitality in Kensington and arms flung in the direction of Eliot's church, too far to walk after champagne. In strange safety to admire Laguiole knives arrayed in pastel celebration in a room too small for it, on a table too small for eight guests talking about Daniel Barenboim, and lost icons, and Russian dancing, and yet it was all there. The lilacs were in bloom and the windows black with sunlight.
Now I am weeping foreign tears over gutter-sluiced inflorescence each step knocked out more memory, some return to an internal melt that clogs the future as though it will never meet us, heel in the sand.
Just to read: you'd be happy too with such a gorgeous creature in your arms!
