A portrait on canvas, years later, of the edge of the known world. Your something-of-the-
south vowels rippling slow over the lower lake I was then: something to feed, graciously,
with a misplaced glove and some 2 a.m. tea. A few disheveling lines and a momentary
clarity. Giving me a language and a patience for the beauty of minor loss. And a coin or
two of envy to give the boatman when I cross.