If you leaned overthe peeling window ledge,one tower of Notre Dame
That hazy, faintly discernible glow,already half erased,lodged in the corners of the night
You smiled, slumped in your chair.I was reclining. We talked butnot much was said. It was the day
How an insurgent movement of pro-democracy activists—from underground, in exile, or in prison—returned to take Burma’s military junta by political storm.
Once again the land was alonewith me. The hills were humped and low.
A trip on a barge down Burma’s river highway
If only they wouldn’t leave us so alone.At the fair, and farther out, in the arcades,in arcadia—
