Paradise All the noise a brain makes in passing. A period of intensity, then silence. And piled around me, the shadows of my own hands and other, larger hands. Having once watched the movie in early summer, I thought of it every year at that time, though every other circumstance of life had changed completely. A day on which you refuse to speak. The strangers came and went, while we stayed all afternoon in the natural pool, jumped from the rock lip through the waterfall, into that pool and the next pool, my father white and flabby, strange without his glasses. The waking, working, distant tempo of dream. Paradise What was altered, ever, by the stroke that aimed to alter. Wherever a draft of wind became constant, we noted the difference and the speed. The long perspective of childhood’s quiet hours. Who is old enough to know why trees blow when the wind’s up from Corpus Christi, or how the sound of death digs into a room. The question is, wh...