At Least
voices beyond the wall, Spanish, probably, the cast of morning shadows, Friday, white vinca blossoming, cannas; Stan Getz drawing out one silk thread after another, its cloth fallen into bright remnants, Oscar Peterson, and J. J. Johnson, the Opera House in September, its arcade, suddenly aeolian, the dark river flecked with city lights, Harry Callahan’s collage “Chicago 1957,” pieces not quite joined; somehow everything you imagine, José Jesus Flores and his blue Mercury hardtop, the London House, Eleanor on the damp slope of the Polk Street Bridge: is it “Yesterdays” already?
