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
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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