Dreaming CK guides me in a deliberative dolly shot through her top floor flat on Spring Street, "slowly, slowly," she tells me, "let the scene speak."
Lens pulls back to reveal french doored bedroom, sweater sleeve hanging from half open dresser drawer, overcoat from mahogany tree, remains of fifteen year absence from narrow flight.
Give permission to the silence, the anxiety for narrative purpose found in first generation Nyugat poets--Endre Ady, Árpád Tóth, Mihály Babits--broken only by squeak of industrial gondola lift, Bartók inspired sounds of Hungarian avante-garde.
The forced gaze at luscious rain trickling down stucco brings longing for the beauty of a Budapest post-wall rave, where CB--now Bruce-Lee--broke an ankle to hobble on my shoulder after last Metro through streets of le sixième arrondissement.
Dark drenched front legs of black khakis, cotton socks soaked through loafers, side winding water, yard long gutter puddles must be met without nylon pant shell, duck shoes but with eyes of Minnesota's Strand, Minor White: frenzied serenity.
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