In a valley late bees with whining gold Thread summer to the loose ends of sleep; A harvester pauses, surprised, in dreams of sheep, Across his back the ravellings of the sun.
In 1932 I was in France for the second time, and I hoped to accomplish what I had failed to do on my first visit four years earlier: an introduction to Paul Valéry.
Trying to make a living as a book reviewer, the $200 spare-parts book scanner, TriQuarterly’s future, behind the scenes at the Nobel Foundation, and more.
Without warning, a hobbled old Afghan man comes around the corner, surprising the soldier guarding the door. The soldier yells, “Stop!” The old man inches forward on his cane.
