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Just in time for Valentine's Day,
the Guardian in London has
reviewed and raved about
The Secret Language of Sleep.
And, for the rest of the week,
you can buy it for $5!

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One Long Sentence
and a Few Short Ones,
or 39 Lines by Frank Gehry: Guggenheim, Bilbao.

BY JAMES HARMS

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 On a boulevard in Barcelona
 my watch began its backward crawl
 as Lani counted down the buildings
 by Gaudí and whistled the same song

 she'd been whistling since a morning
 in Córdoba, when it leaked from a pair
 of headphones a girl had left near a plate of pears, 
 all of us sharing plans to visit Toledo

 on our way back, though all we knew of morning
 and each other we learned and forgot in that simple crawl
 through breakfast in a courtyard, a song
 beginning its slow construction in Lani's mind, a building

 of music as lovely and eternal as any building
 by Gaudí, the way the memory of music can pare
 away the sallow air once soaked with song, 
 with orange trees and sweat, how everywhere in Seville

 diesel smoke hung like gray streamers above the crawl
 of traffic each evening, how even morning
 was a sepia fog, a breath exhaled from the last morning
 dream before waking, before the daily building

 back of confidence and faith revived the crawl
 of hope—even Lani in her brand-new pair
 of silver sandals believed that Lorca left Granada
 to spare the city, not himself: once every song

 was dusted over and done, once every song
 hardened like a bullet in a cast of mourning, 
 little metal murmurs, once Lorca stopped dreaming of Málaga
 and the sea and simply swallowed another fist in a building

 bruised blue by evening, his face as soft as a pear
 left for no one on a sill, ants crawling
 up the wall in a line, certain of sugar and crawling
 and a little mound of sand; once all the songs

 and their memories stopped and a last pair
 of moths exploded in the light of morning ... 
 Lani finished counting the strange buildings
 and began to plan. "A thousand miles to Madrid," 

 she said, her finger crawling the map as she sang
 the same song. "But let's forget Madrid." The buildings
 fell away, a pair of cows in a field. "It's even farther to Bilbao." 

 

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