Stonington, Connecticut
1
The clouds have parted. A boat returns to the harbor. In October, blue is the opposite of
blue. A tern. The violence of the visible: always a distraction, always a confusion.
Something gets crowded out. But what?
2
A man and a woman appear, walk to the end of the wharf, sit down on a bench. He
smokes a cigarette, she sends a text message. During sleep I talk in a language no one
understands. Ten minutes later, they are gone.
3
Time is a prison, said Nabokov. He could remember shades of shadow. I remember
intensities of light: the glow of the moon last evening, as I walked up and down Water
Street. The shine of last autumn’s lamp.
4
The color of yesterday is gray. The color of last week is green, with thin streaks of
yellow. Last year is of a fading color, the kind I’ll never see again. The air feels like a
knife blade. A perfect day, split in half.
5
A day in the life of . . . In my mind I have an image of a poet who no longer exists. In my
hand I hold the key to his apartment. Why do we forget so much, year after year? The
apartment replies with pebbles and stars.
