2 December 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 4
Of Foreign Lands and People
The day my brother brought me to the pond
of one thousand screaming white swans
it was winter in Akita. I'd spent the morning
trading picture-words on napkins
with the lacquer-box maker and his tiny wife
who took scissors to delicate paper, conjuring
moonscapes and improbable blossoms.
We understood each other perfe