Villa Le Lac, Vevey

A machine for living, he called it,
but no one lives here anymore––
only pilgrims come to tour this place.
Paint chips from moisture
along the ribbon window’s view
as integral to this structure as
cuisine, salon, jardin, the square of turf
that caps the golden rectangle where
Japanese architects drink mint tisane––fresh-
clipped––from a double-walled service.
I press a sprig and ivory hydrangea
blossoms in my notebook. July glitters
on the lake, alas, no city of the sun,
a modernist’s mother’s otium.

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