Thursday, December 10, 2009


"...times I can taste the iron in the air, the gray wash like exhaust, smell the burn-off,
my eyes begin to tear..."

From "The Foundry Garden" by Stanley Plumly


Dale said...

Oh. Now I have to go read Plumly.

lowenkopf said...

Although it could have been, this clearly is NOT San Jose, which would have thrown out the entire panel rather than patching it, perhaps replacing it with a fresco or trompe l'oeil, or whatever it is they do in San Jose.

Anonymous said...

the patch is so sweet, I'd like to add dots of solder all around it. The poem: great. The article on Keats: ditto.

Hope you get to relax over the weekend.