He takes trains and planes, always with a book of poems in his pockets, for there is a great need for talismans in this time of post-time.

Like the rain that had falls equally on the thorns and the roses of the century, history corrodes secreted personal memory.

It is for this reason, perhaps, Paul and Primo had left this world via the Seine, via the stair, leaving a flowering axe, and a periodic table.

Like prophets who come foretelling the doom of Sodom, and whose words fall on to the deaf ears of carousing mobs, these ferries, painted the color of sunsets, cross and recross the foam flecked bay in the rain - a warning appropriate to our brief time on earth that sunlight like grace is limited, and that paradise, like the ripe mouth of a woman when loved, passes much too quickly, leaving us with few poetic images (as if to increase our torments): green Ulyssean isles in spring air, the scent of heavy lemons, lovers crossing a palazzo sharing a gelato.

The color of Radhika's skin Enflamed with desire - skyline at horizon just before daybreak.