Now Antipolis knows your aspect
In your cotton frock turning to art.

And that, old man, is it,
that’s all that’s left:
just these two lines laid bare
where they’ve always been,
a verdigris coin
in memory’s loose change,
a bone exposed on stony ground,
blanched by the winter sun
of your nineteenth year,
a sherd of teenage poetry
lodged forever in your head,
high on the goat-scrabble slopes
above the town of Antibes,
below the village of Biot …

Poem, in its entirety, is available in the printed version of the current issue.


Anthony Purdy lives on Nova Scotia’s South Shore, where he writes poems and stories. In 1969 he worked on a tulip farm in Provence.

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