Was it grief or grievance that consumed one? The current ferment? The isolated incidents of
the quarantine? One hammers a nail. Lights a candle. Lets each stand in for prayer. I can only
note that the past is beautiful, Virginia Woolf writes, because one never realizes an emotion at the time. It
expands later, and thus we don't have complete emotions about the present, only about the past. One occupies
a moment suspended between events. Radiance is a side effect. The little bell at the front desk
lures, but one resists the temptation to ring it. Displeased with the accommodations, one
accommodates oneself and feels finally at home. Or at least for now comfortable. Perhaps in
memory the room will have a view. The canal’s backward S all mother of pearl beneath a
tarnished moon’s silver.