Maybe that the dream is now dissolving, we can consider ourselves blessed to have felt its gauze. And maybe that residue—the vain cotton web, languid as Spanish moss—is like our memories. We held close to a city that was always changing, always growing, always sinking. We fed the dream with our own sleeplessness; cast the sinker before we had hook or line. And even if it was never there, I still miss is.
And we knew the dirge deep. Duende down the Delta: an ecology of love, a diaspora of passion. A confederacy of tongues, conspired against the idiots; you cannot teach sinking water to float. So we’ll grope along the seam of the table-cloth, like Catullus at supper club, attending any stitch of familiarity. Our texture of New Orleans is rich, but the fabric is getting cheaper.