America

America

Grand Central Station is part commuter nexus and part wonder; the sheer scale of the arched and painted ceiling of the main terminal, the intentional, architectural symmetries and the symmetrical breaks, the dark, commuter train tunnels and descending, subway staircases, the echoing arrival and departure pronouncements, the exotic aromas from the many restaurants and bakeries.

That Burton MS

That Burton MS

I could begin, for instance, with the day on which Isobel Burton consigned the manuscript of her late husband’s revised translation of The Scented Garden of Sensual Delight to the bonfire. Or I could begin with my growing interest in Burton himself and his final years in Trieste.

The Pintlers

The Pintlers

The first time I became aware of Jeanette was at the Black Sands Art Show, part of Anaconda’s annual Summerfest. Local painters, photographers, ceramicists, craftspeople, and merchants had set up awnings, tables, and booths throughout Washoe Park, with walkways looping and meandering among the stalls and temporary galleries.

Remembering Bologna

Remembering Bologna

No one taught me how to forget. I wanted to remember, each detail: descending from the train, arriving into the station, the porticoes, the distance to the hotel, strands of fog kissing the streets, anointing our heads, our arms locked together, the bag over each of our shoulders.

The Unreachable

The Unreachable

I know. It’s tacky to address you like this. Tackier to acknowledge it. Worse still to acknowledge the acknowledgement. And so on unto infinity.

When Waves Meet

When Waves Meet

Sometimes, when two waves meet in the ocean,
They embrace, each smoothing the movement
Of the other, and are calm.

Where does this end

Where does this end

Where does this end, he wonders
Again and again, pointing to a wave or the sky
Blinded by an echo with no double.
One with the flatness.