WEBVTT

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And the last poem I'm going to
read from this book is called

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"To Cedar."

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And that's the poet, a good
friend of mine, Cedar Sigo.

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And I wrote this sitting at
a windy bar cafe in Northern

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Italy, I guess.

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Not I guess.

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I was, in fact, there.

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Sorry, I'm just looking at it.

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OK, "To Cedar."

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Lake Garda's winds blow the
chips out of their bowls.

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Another common distortion.

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"Mag" in big white letters
across a burgundy drape hanging

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from a castle window
in the old fortress,

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transitioning into local museum.

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Aperol through a straw
goes down too fast,

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breaking squibbles in the shanks
of giants, purple pastrami

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layers of mountains change
colors by the minute,

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looming as feint.

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In Padua, the heat
is neared in needles,

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little lizards reimagining the
gully outside Giotto's starscape

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so oddly figured as
realist by the intro video

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an irreality TV
version of wall text.

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I swooned for all my
anti-redemptive tendencies

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at the site of
Jericho's sleep, goats

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and an angel making a
perimeter in a high arching

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square of another desert.

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Folds of robes in the
sun flats, bugging.

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Rearrangement requires
bone fragments, if not

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the whole hoary skeletux.

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Easy to get the
first drink here.

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The cove more brood than bruise.

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You were in the
hospital after a stroke,

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and you will see me
soon in New York.

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This feels impossible to cut up.

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I can only be late everywhere.

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In your honor, a
continuation honor

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burns in envy to keep up with.

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The second drink,
suitably stronger,

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finally arrives delivered
by coot and crested grebe.

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Does war dream of
war, Onoda asks

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in the jungle of
Werner's twilight?

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