By John Peck
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Extra resources for Contradance
And Jiao said, The boat is on the river. And smaller than a mountain. Outside the meditation hall Larry Rosenberg suddenly had faced me, his abandoned tenure at Harvard part of his talk that night, and I thanked him for the backstop which that gave in retrospect to my own crazy exit through the transom of learning. Taking me by the shoulders he said, There’s a saying by Lin-chi about the honorable man of no rank. Another Saturday man approaches the red bench to pay court. We nod and I give way, but facing old Ozzie I recite, Herr, es ist Zeit: der Sommer war so gross, and he lifts his smoke high: That’s Rilke!
Gilded or silvered solitaries or dumbbells, a dormitory sprawl from the night of nights and the feast of feasts, they wait for Belshazar’s great morning to be hung from the silk nets of ebbing torchlight riot. Films of exhaust sequester me from huddled voices, tables populated by shining goblets, sheets whispering down a blind-drawn bed, cubicles of tart truth. the web in centr al park Sangay Choden, twenty-some, sits in harness to a frame loom from Bhutan in the entry passage of the Rubin Museum, her hips the yoke for that silk.
No scanning as on that regional out of Milano, risen sun through a coach of Nigerian women, leers and disdain over wheel sound smoothing resolves to work the streets of Florence. Unable to move, they probed freely. Captive to a condition, she was on the loose. Her laugh showed the uppers half gone, she who had done ward rounds, still ghosting the face of young Ruzicka counting Iraq’s dead until killed, Marla sporting red cowl, Mary a black beret, both traipsing unprotected, unscheduled. Body the same, but not the name on the chart.