I found Claudette at the tourist office in Arras, handing out maps in a square no one leaves. Everything radiates gray and calendars curl in their uselessness, but the river will hardly drown them all, bent, as it is, on the west. It all makes as much sense as unscented candles.
Uncomfortable shoes startle cobblestones.
This is the place for a sigh. This is the place where cracks struggle toward each other like lovers at night. Remember, Claudette, crashing through ponds, resting on elms. We crowded grass into our clothes and declared ourselves nature preserves. Such delightful scratching.