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Bilbao Alone

Some of the sounds here are familiar: Vivaldi plays the same in this language, keys rattle in locks, the engines of buses sigh as they turn street corners. But something is different, an odd solitude. It digs itself under my watch into the small bones of my wrist. Here in . . . . Continue Reading »

Complex Phenomena

The rules of chaos are simple: A mountain is never a perfect cone. A lake is never really a circle. A dropof dew is not a microcosm. No. Flowers wither. Dust collects. There is therelentless return of what we do not want. Everything inclines to disorder. But then how . . . . Continue Reading »

Old Havana

. . . pongee-colored girls in white dresses the sun shone through in multiple haloes where they lay alongside streets like sofas reading José Martí behind potted ferns in avenue-knolls paved with Key West grass and long-leaved tobacco shaved and scented like bark strips. . . . . Continue Reading »

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