3 short stories about Boston.

Sing 'sotto voce' to the revolution behind us.

Perception has nothing to say if not stylistic.

*

The train to the city was full of foot rubs and empty restaurants for crab dinners.
The boats were wrapped like peppermint candies.

He who returns has never left.

Neruda

*

I found a man dead on the sidewalk. He didn't have legs and was sitting in a wheelchair. He was alone.
Earlier in the day I was sleeping in the shade of an otherwise sun-filled park across from the museum.
An unknown man awoke me with a shake on the arm to ask if I was okay.

Some afternoon remembers the sweat, air,

the fast bright laughter without stirrups.

*

I filmed the clouds that ran into the glass windows of a building I did not enter.
They turned from heart to wings. I read too much metaphor into this.

Later, you sent me the photo of a bird with its head tucked away so that only the curve of its neck showed.
Aghast, I took a picture of the duck that was literally standing ten foot in front of me in that same moment --
its head tucked away so that only the curve of its neck showed.