Par Avion [ 10.06.2008 – L’Abbaye de Pontlevoy, France ]

The chapel is half cathedral; the monks ran out of money & slapped an entrance on what was complete. Today, a maintenance worker has dressed the altar in white. I linger at grayed saints’ bones set in faceless wooden busts. Snails cross a wall older than home. My friends say it’s a crime how common these places are.

Later I discover a vineyard behind a garage, buy a bottle of rosé, promise to return for the confits de vin. Each jar, a little window, captures this country whose language I barely know.