He is a raconteur, yet to be exorcised of gilded memory. The morning was spent scouring College Street for Bangladeshi poetry
He takes me through the old school-gate beside the high walled prison, where my father used to take me every morning just before the first prayer bell rang.
Sonoran volcanic light. Anazazi ruins and dust cover hollow eyes of Apache warriors.
What does going to the cemetery once a year and taking stock of the old and new tombstones have to do with Christianity?