A sense of mail in the Azores. The blueprints waterlogged as if they swam to us here. The shark's body was oddly white and appeared to be grinning. A crowded hotel, tropical drinks. Grains of that sunlight have remained with me for decades.
All day she "took her life in her hands." After there was a persistent electricity, a tingling even. The rivers from childhood recalled specifically as silver were in fact polychromatic. He wrote as if his own life were held at a ransomed distance. There are, of course, many histories.
Haunted by a personal failure. Pursued by a body that insists on its right to be a guest. The church steeple was visible only after October when the leaves all at last fell. You can see yourself that way, if you want. Monastically devoted to photographing soon-to-be extinct terrapin.
It was primarily a poem over which he didn't labor. The horse faced me while I worked, then my daughter, and neither could be said to smile. Could it be the 1950s or the 40s even? Who are you kidding with your "story stones?" And then the throaty gurgle of turkeys waking up.