At the Standard they pay a man to lathe olive woodinto the softball-sized spheres they load the braziers within the heat of early afternoon. They douse them with gas, touch a match: and the guests with their crow facesand sky-colored suits emergeto sip from tiny eggshell glasses.Orchids lean out from jute baskets lashedto the palm …
Statement—held till it melts—I’m sorry. We’ve come to in a dark green house, under slenderfurred eaves.Far croak of the chough, wrinkle of bats.The sun brushes the larch needles, sweat beads a tiny copper kettle—it burns my palm, it is cold when I lay my palm on it.In this room, three walls of loosely plotted novels.And …