Arcade

9 8 Y A R C A D E E S T H E R S C H O R The beauty of it’s also the hell of it: our sharpest teeth fall out first. Our rustic customs say sever tomatoes from their seeds, roast till they start to weep, set the table as you’d set a bone. Overheard in the arcade: ‘‘Don’t ask permission, ask forgiveness.’’ Spare me the wisecracks, fiddle boy, put down your signs. When I learn to read, you’ll be the first to know. To keep my mind roomy, I’m forgetting a word a day, unless I forget. So dream with confidence, tell the husband by the dog; the shepherd you never fixed, the husky with cancer, the golden who couldn’t master bow or wow, and the husbands trotting behind. By the time you awake 9 9 R they’ll all match up, the bitch you put to sleep (she cradled in your arms, you in his) the marriage solemnized in quickness and in stealth. ...