Glass breaking, outside
my windows, on the street.
What the last week would
sound, if a week could

. . .

In every movement and color and sound, a thousand others . . . and too many folks, recalled so vividly, even if I hadn't known 'em for so long. As I have reminded you ad nauseum, orangepeeler, it is not the fact that I remember, but an essence of a moment: liquid, refulgent, and stubbornly peculiar, a perfume in a tiny glass bottle among so many other tiny glass bottles, waiting to waft, uncorked, and deliver the past's distillation in a cold dark room.

. . .

Where has the buttery summer light gone? My toast is cold. Daylight is crisp, nostril-flaring, and at the horizon, the port seems closer, sharper.




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