New England Review - - Table of Contents -

The light-flecked nega­tion of Guer­nica, brute inks splayed against the dark, came back to me last night in the old dream of Santa Maria dei Mira­coli, that Vene­tian jewel box

closed for decades, scarred by scaf­fold­ing, then at last empty, haunted, its gray-blues and chalk whites some vi­sion of heaven— yet boxed in like a court­room in some po­dunk town hall.

Easter came upon us, the amaryl­lis blood-red at the eaves­drop, even pas­sion just a mood.

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