When I asked Robert Wynne to join me as co-editor of a new poetry anthology, his immediate response was When do we start? Only
I. All season the lake wore different dresses: a thick gray one like a supplicant’s, or a frothy light green one to dance in.
I think of myself positioned between the majesty of Mount Gorgonio and an eight mile beach where I walk every morning on the edge
Translated by Khaled Mattawa An African summer at the beach, a summer of Oran. If my memory of greenery were to cloud up, I