Diego Velázquez

An aristocratic Dane, draped in tweed, blonde hair whisked to           side, clunked a bottle of

     whiskey down on the desk, waved his hand easily into the                smoky air as if shooing

     a fly: “This is so vulgar. It really is,” meaning the Brahms                Festival Overture, and

     the light for one small moment over the library glinted into                the window.

“The ocean will never cease to give us pleasure, Doctor.” She           posed on wet rocks against

     a distant storm; he stood beside a yawl overturned beneath the                seawall and

     complained: “My friends, they either disappoint me or compel                me to jealousy."

The way he discussed the more decadent Roman Emperors, one           suspected that he wished

     historical circumstances had permitted him to speak of himself                in such terms.

A letter arrived from the coast: “I just returned from a stroll.           Here are some thoughts.

     This time of year the gulls feed on the juniper trees. They                cannot perch on the

     branches because the branches cannot support their weight, so                they slowly flap

     their wings to keep in place to eat the berries. It is beautiful,                this swaying."

And he asked: “What rivers, what air, are my men to cross?” The           enemy replied: “If you

     can give me seven laps across the Bosphorus, you may drown                at your discretion.

     That was our deal.”

Typed at a portable desk on the Normandy beachhead, beneath           clouds of naval gunfire,

     bodies soaked in sand: “The wreckage is vast and startling.”