By the time we are meant to leave our little town, the sweltering heat will be gone and this window will be closed.

Rebecca says as much, half-marveling and half-grieving the passage, as she wonders what moved me to shoot it.

Even if I knew, I might not say to her or U. The artist rightly holds her tongue, letting the brush do its work (or not).

Yes, but the novelist can’t help himself. (Just a girl’s muddy drawers sets Faulkner’s imagination off on The Sound and the Fury.)

Between two aesthetic theories falls the shadow of the absent owner at Osteria del Trivio. A night off? Or intimations of mortality?

On the way to the art store earlier today, I composed an album of shop fronts: mostly vacant, a few newly opened in the intervening year.

Of time and the river, they sing (like Jackson Browne?). Then might it be said (about “19”), so much always depends on the frame?