After setting out from the Arctic Ocean, the number one question I was asked en route from Alaska to Argentina was: “How are you getting around the Darién Gap...
Rain dashed upon the glass and steel canyon-streets of London, drumming against the concrete walls that rose from the riverbank, high above the ancient...
Sit on the porch, Normandy moors
Stretch, dream
of dried flowers with no fragrance,
did they ever bloom
in silent fields and wooded shades.
Plateau yield overgrown grass,
Stand there;...
“She had everything she needed: a little bit of laundry-change that she scraped off the dining table the other night, some water, her half-eaten lunch, a comic book and a tiny slip with her address scribbled on it.”
““But now, we are walking backwards until we collide. We are talking of women and their men, of the wall, of the weather. Of us. “Does it trouble you too?” I ask.”