More on: Jean Janzen

He shaped them out of balsa wood, one model plane after another, a boy during Word War II. With sharp blade in his small hand he carved the curves for what could hover over his bed at night, until a whole fleet of planes hung from the ceiling, breezes through the window rustling them into…

The whole city floats beneath our feet. Arched bridges hold it together, we say, lulled into dreams and into each other’s arms, window open to soft lapping. And at dawn a dove coos, two eggs loose on the bare windowsill. We arrived by air in Rome, then the train on rails over wooden posts driven…