I
can say it's January when
it's
August. I can say, "The scent
of
wisteria on the second floor
of
my grandmother's house
with
the door open onto the porch
in
Petaluma," while I'm living
an
hour's drive from the Mexican
border
town of Ojinaga.
It
is possible to be with someone
who
is gone. Like the silence which
continues
here in the desert while
the
night train passes through Marfa
louder
and louder, like the dogs whining
and
barking after the train is gone.
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