Sometimes I’ll suddenly remember the powerof her house, and of the approach to it,down the narrow, extreme-curve-to-the-right street, opening onto the somehow delicate cul-de-sac, mybest friend’shouse—what?Italianate? Ogive windows, balconies, tile…
That poet you scornedfor retiring when he was forty, then beginning thirty years laterwith the same voice and styleThe crack in his life invisible What he said in youthand approaching…
Barred from swimming pools the hot summer longbut loving the delicious cold on our skins,we dove in ditches dug to irrigatethe same fields where our fathers slogged, underthe supervising eye…