And then a little prose poem that I wrote the--
not the problem, the what?
The-- take a drink of water and think
of what I'm trying to say.
The-- I still can't think of the word, the whatever it
is I was trying to solve or do.
I don't-- I have a problem with words.
[LAUGHTER]
The problem, I guess, I was trying to figure out
was how to write a one-sentence poem.
It's all one sentence.
And it's about the island of Corfu, Greek island
off the Italian coast.
Saint Spyridon is the patron saint of the island of Corfu.
"Over Govino Bay, looking out from the water's edge,
the landscape resembles nothing so much as the hills
above Genova volleying into the sea,
washing down olive, cypress, and excessive arbutus
into the slow snapping of the plane trees where
I, surrendering to the pulse beat of a silent so faint
that it seems to come from another country,
watch the sun rise over Albania.
Waiting, calmly, unquestioning for Saint Spyridon
of holy memory to arise, leave his silver casket,
and emerge wearing the embroidered slippers
from his grove of miracles above the hill."