Galway Kinnell came to Santa Barbara in 1994 to give a reading. It was wonderful, despite his suffering a cold. He was touring for the publication of his book Imperfect Thirst. I was tasked to bring the cake for the reception, which I fetched from a local bakery. It was a large sheet cake in the excellent imperfect likeness of the book’s cover.

That night it rained lightly. Toad the Wet Sprocket were playing The Arlington and we were at the Victoria, not far away. Naturally, all the parking lots were full. I walked carrying this burden of art in the rain, block after block. I thought of that experience the other day, as I wrote a scene for my novel, in which the narrator carries a dead dog through spring orchards. No place to set such a delicate burden down and rest, except at one’s peril of great spiritual debt.

All of which begs questions:

• If the ox is determined, is the earth not more patient?
• Do we not, from the hour we lose our illusions, dig for ourselves a grave in the cold sky?