I leaned lazily against the dirty ductwork, my rump in a rumpus of dry leaves, beside me a stack of Cicero (Loeb’s ed.), Auden, some modernist trash. I looked past my tilting sneakers to see the edge of the roof of the Guggenheim Library. A mix of field and woods front leafy Cedar Ave., a terrain that cradled my college days. This is where I ate my way through french fry piles of poems, feasts of history, big burgers of science, and lemonade gulps of art. With the open sky above me, a good book beside, and a building full of poetry behind—the world was my oyster! ROADSIDE WINE Pull off 71 suddenly, onto a wide shoulder of dust and grass. Yellow loads of honeysuckle weigh down a length of brown barbwire fence like a wave of honey breaking. Excited, splash ankle-deep into the unhurrying surf full of velvety bee sounds, and select one perfect blossom. It is so sweet in the slow afternoon. And, where you’ve cut your thumb, a thrill of air catches.