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And then a little prose
poem that I wrote the--

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not the problem, the what?

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The-- take a drink
of water and think

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of what I'm trying to say.

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The-- I still can't think
of the word, the whatever it

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is I was trying to solve or do.

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I don't-- I have a
problem with words.

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[LAUGHTER]

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The problem, I guess, I
was trying to figure out

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was how to write a
one-sentence poem.

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It's all one sentence.

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And it's about the island
of Corfu, Greek island

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off the Italian coast.

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Saint Spyridon is the patron
saint of the island of Corfu.

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"Over Govino Bay, looking
out from the water's edge,

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the landscape resembles
nothing so much as the hills

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above Genova volleying
into the sea,

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washing down olive, cypress,
and excessive arbutus

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into the slow snapping
of the plane trees where

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I, surrendering to the pulse
beat of a silent so faint

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that it seems to come
from another country,

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watch the sun rise over Albania.

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Waiting, calmly, unquestioning
for Saint Spyridon

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of holy memory to arise,
leave his silver casket,

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and emerge wearing the
embroidered slippers

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from his grove of
miracles above the hill."

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