Summer 2010 • Vol. XXXII No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 2010 |


In the years since I was a child, the loggias have changed less than other places. This is not the only reason they stay with me. It is much more on account of the solace that lies in their uninhabitability for one who himself no longer has a proper abode. ---Walter Benjamin In winter, it must---for a midday hour or two---be a nearly windless well of light. But in late July, another asylum: an almost chilly green-gray shade. If a side door hadn't been left open, I'd have never known this one was there.                  Here, then, is the reason the swings & slides in the sunny corner parks are deserted. And here, Benjamin says, is the tiny grove where the city-god itself safe-keeps space & time--- they ripen like the neighborhood toddlers, fall in love. Even now, one thunders on its plump legs after the other.                                       

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