People are always quoting the first sentence of a famous Russian novel, mistaking that which goes by the name happiness for certain kinds of material achievement: the pinnacle of a bullet- proof fulfillment, so henceforth no loon call could puncture night laid on dark water, nor fading train whistle in the early hours ever deliver omens of oncoming tragedy. But the problem with such fatalism is that the bad thing bound to happen would therefore already have to have happened in a future we couldn't change but can't see, because maybe there are too many concerts and festivals again, or parties where the hosts have been emboldened to lay out their shiny heavy crystal and order massive flower arrangements and amuse-bouche for the vestibule. When a phone call elicits a shriek from somewhere in the house, we know it can only mean a terrible thing has managed to intrude on the present: a sudden death, a house burned to the ground, a ship capsized at sea. A quick change of fortune, as though someone touched the switch to darken the gold light that only moments ago poured from a high window.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.