Are John Fuller’s Mediterranean terraces hospitable? Who—or what—do they host? Such are the questions raised and discussed in this chapter focusing on the British poet’s lines dedicated to Corsica and Andalusia from the 1990s to the early twenty-first century. However quiet they may seem, Fuller’s private terraces welcome all sorts of unsuspected guests—human or non-human, alive or dead—while pointing towards an ideal of “absolute hospitality.” Nevertheless, as Derrida stressed, “unconditional hospitality” is an aporia: there is no escaping the laws of hospitality. A pact of hospitality must be made to turn an ordinary place into a hospitable one, but it may easily be broken by hostile forces like time or death. Fully aware of those threats, the poet endeavours to challenge the rules of hospitality to both preserve and deepen it through new poetic forms. However, whenever language itself becomes the locus of hospitality, whenever writing changes into a hospitable act, Fuller’s verse keeps stressing the importance of rules. Various cultures or voices may co-exist in his lines, but they cannot merge, which gives rise to unprecedented polyphonic works praising the unfathomable mysteries and depth of others, be they humans or things like fruit or flowers.