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


To behave and pay attention