In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

asking nothing, smiled everywhere. Come. By the Boat Pond The newspapers blowing over the street made her cry, all the birds in New York were crying because they couldn’t speak Greek, she took nothing with her and went out onto the street. The day was obscure, one more lick of the quiet licking at the door, her soft black magic, swallowing him, the children, the world: leaving, everyone leaving, all turning angels or nothing, nothing or swimming like paradise children. The Summer House i She took his hand so he brought her to his country: ‘See it is dry’: and 78 door in the mountain it was a light field, water, a tree loud as water in that wind. —In your country there is a light field, water. Your body is in this wind, I am in your mouth, your hand. ii There were times out of time’s drag we’d be without fixed faces bodies or words; times held like a feathery scene on a Quimper plate: v’s of quick birds in their aviary sky, blue flowers strung all around the dot-faced boy and girl: all afternoon the sunlight ticked across sleep, across our borrowed house. iii The angels we made in the snow are blown and the shapes at the snow’s edge are only themselves again and we our taller selves smoke between the house and the woods’ edge, dying to come in or have snow: —Does he love her? She loves, he loves, they love the old stories of the snow and the look of the house. Together so. pilgrims 79 ...

Share