ending with a line adapted from Neruda A doe is still among the death-cradles. In dappling shyness, her fawn waits in the brush. If a little rain steeples its fingers, if dusk approaches and flanks us from the east, maybe the long leaf pines will indulge their green sorrows. All the rows are …

  Tampa Bay Hotel, 1898 How gingerly they rest their hands on its barrel, the solid heft of it. How familiar they seem in its presence, like crowding around an old patriarch. One fellow with the look of a soldier slouches beside it easily as lounging in the sun. He savors his cigarette, daydreams about …