Bogliasco
By Robert Polito
I’m always running ahead of my life,
The way when we walk you are always
Three, fifteen, forty steps behind
Taking a picture, or inspecting
A bottlebrush tree, a cornice, the sea
As it breaks white on the striated rock,
As though I can’t dare look, and
I’m always running away from myself
The way when we walk you are always
Asking me to slow down, and what will happen
When one of us dies, and, if it’s me first,
There’s no one’s back in our photos anymore.
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Thursday was a much nicer day than Wednesday, albeit much colder and my hands are still chilly. I had a whole bunch of chores to do, but the good news is that all my holiday cards now have address labels and return address labels, so now they just need stamps, which are coming as soon as the post office delivers them.
My cats had a difficult day, since the hawks are migrating and the chipmunks are not yet hibernating, so they had a lot to supervise on the deck. We got another pretty sunset, though, and I talked to my Thursday night fannish chat group on Zoom while glancing up to see the Patriots losing to the Bills, so that was very nice.
Some photos of fabulous glass from Mystic Seaport Museum's exhibit Sargent, Whistler and Venetian Glass: American Artists and the Magic of Murano, including an 1870s fish and eel vase, a 19th century copy of a 16th century ewer in the form of a boat, a copy of an ancient Roman wine cup, and a Chihuly seaform:
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