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Poem	Today, because I couldn't find the shortcut through, I had to walk this town's entire inner perimeter to find where the medieval walls break open in an eighteenth century arch. The yellow valley flickered on and off through cracks and the gaps for guns. Bruna is teaching me to cut a pattern. Saturdays we buy the cloth. She takes it in her hands like a good idea, feeling for texture, grain, the built-in limits. It's only as an afterthought she asks and do you think it's beautiful? Her measuring tapes hang down, corn-blond and endless, from her neck. When I look at her I think Rapunzel, how one could climb that measuring, that love. But I was saying, I wandered all along the street that hugs the walls, a needle floating on its cloth. Once I shut my eyes and felt my way along the stone. Outside is the cashcrop, sunflowers, as far as one can see. Listen, the wind rattles in them, a loose worship seeking an object, an interruption. Sara, the walls are beautiful. They block the view. And it feels rich to be inside their grasp. When Bruna finishes her dress it is the shape of what has come to rescue her. She puts it on.
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