Anne Winters | The Nation

Pasted bumpily on brick, life-sized. Inside,
in a former foundry's casting vault, my father in the role
of Agamemnon died. A thin-browed bronze mask skating

"A shift in the structure of experience..."
As I pass down Broadway this misty late-winter morning,
the city is ever alluring, but thousands of miles to the south

We're aware in every nerve end of our tenement's

hand-mortared Jersey brick, the plumbing's

dripping dew-points, the electric running Direct,