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13th Street Is Not Called 13th Street.
    It's Called Baughman.

                           for Louisa Solano sure joy


This time we thought only the owners were left and so we

substituted "shopping" for "investing," and lost the big picture.

SPINACH TOMATO GRAVY CORN RICE CLAM SAUSAGE ONION APPLE

Bo spoke of us being church-raised as little machines for God.

Now I've experienced the arousal of death: to want, to pester.

Thinking is a gift and a burden I think as I look out a window.

A squirrel's scampering on a power line chased by a small bird.

Life is a bitch, love is a bitch, morning's a bitch, my butt.

It either straightens out or it flattens down or it oozes lymph.

Boston Metro (20June2001,p.7) Braintree. Town officials have

reopened Sunset Lake to swimmers less than a week after a girl

came out of the water reportedly covered with thirty leeches.

Water tests show no contamination, no contamination says the Boston Globe.

The death of an artist, writer, filmmaker is a time of inventory.

It is a time for taking a cup of tea in a public place. One lump.

I had breakfast at the Brookline Lunch in Cambridge with Louisa.

I phoned Georgia Howe who wanted to know what I wanted from her.

Went looking for St. Jerome by Matteo Giovanni in the Fogg Museum.



—Edward Mycue

 

 


Edward Mycue 's recent books include Night Boats and Because We Speak the Same Language. He lives in San Francisco.


Originally published in the April/May 2002 issue of Boston Review


Copyright Boston Review, 1993–2005. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.

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