A plump old man with grey hair and an uncomfortable walk crosses the road in front of the boulangerie. He wears jeans and a shabby blazer. In one hand,he has a baguette from which he has broken off the end. From the other hand he nibbles the broken off piece of baguette. Across the road he enters the door of the corner building. A few seconds later one of the shutters on the first floor flickers.
A young man rides his bicyle on one wheel. He leans backward balancing himself as though he is on a rearing horse.
A neighbour at dinner tells me he knows one English poet - Coleridge. And one poem Xanadu. I am especially pleased because I have already today been reminded of the poem by the presence of Kublai Kahn in Invisible Cities, the subject of a recent blog.
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