More on: Steve Kronen

O, I write to you now Lew / Wallace to say that a deal is a deal / is a deal, and that everything is possible / under our eye-squinting American sky.

Outside, the traffic stutters, some drivers blow their horns and the impulse bolts in dendrite-leaps from car to car. I’d like to think it’s the bellow of my stiff-necked Hebrews, shofars raised to lips, razing, man to man, the walls of Jericho to its stony knees. But it’s more how a monkey lopes— branch to…

Soon, soon enough, all of this, this lived life, this navy-blue couch, your confetti-splashed, yellow-striped skirt spread across it, your lovely legs beneath the skirt, the joyous aroma of toast in the toaster, a ball bouncing and the cry of boys, all of it will assume the stilted look of my childhood photographs. 1958, ’59.…