Bozza Imperfetta of Sight   The tourists arrive. Dogs roam, smaller than the strays back home, then sleep, teats exposed, on warm stone roads. The tourists snap pictures; they snap pictures of each other snapping pictures; as expected, they snap pictures of cars—a 1950s Ferrari, a red taxi with Rubenesque curves. Strangers wave, pose: A…

No one wanted to do it, no one wantedto look at a thing so large, helplessto die or live, not knowing what to ask for itself.To imagine an after. Even less to change it.Because they all imagined themselvesgentle—no hunter, no wolf among them—theywanted it to return to where the crease of woods began. The woman, she…

               Before I’m born, I’m in no hurry to be born. So I arrive unhurried. A shape in the trees. Weighted, a fishing-line pinching                              the water’s surface. A voice like the moon, wordless        …