| OCR Text |
Show SIGHT-SEER Across the street, the Jewish bride appeared, half-asleep, at the hotel window, her hair still flecked with bluets and crocus petals, her soft eyes brooding on the brilliant waterlight guttered along the palisade. Four times that afternoon, the sun broke through the storm-clouds, igniting the rain-puddles, and lifting a thin blue rubble above the esplanade; and beneath the streets you could hear the sump-pumps sucking at the terminals, sug, sug: it was like memory at its fullest, or a dream at that moment of ideal complexity, when we are neither present nor missing, yet all the details, and everyone, seem familiar. And so, that evening, beneath a dripping green awning, I sat sipping a beer, and on the corner an idiot fiddler was playing, softly, a trickle of rainwater blackening the shoulder of his overcoat- there were many leaves strewn along the wet streets, and now and then, the rustling of clothes. |
