took place in Italy: black figs and gilded apricots; a clatter of bells; the vivid repartee of birds as migratory as I was. Or in Paris with its classical maze of buildings and bridges where French perfected itself in my mouth, already lush with wine and bruised with kisses. A flute of chilled prosecco every morning…that beautiful Belgian boy each afternoon… a single yellow rose became my long-stemmed bookmark. I learned the world the way some women learn their kitchens– all those unswept alleys, the scoured look of deserts, the knife-edged borders between men and countries. And time went by so slowly, and so fast, a river whose source is hidden high in the curve of a mountain: freeze and frantic meltdown and freeze again. Like pebbles in that riverbed there were perfect children along the way and poems from time to time. But the art that mattered was the life led fully, stanza by swollen stanza.