When I received the call I was in a store in Missoula, Montana.
A store stocked with sparkling ephemera: glass fauna, tiny, belfry bulbs,
winter white birch and stump lamps brandishing light cones,
little shelves and branches hung drops of ice and round silver baubles.
I loved the store: it was cavernous, dark with wood and burlap.
A ruddy brick loft with lithographs and monographs on birds or bracelets.
The storeowner, Fran, was away that day otherwise
I would have stayed in there a little longer.
She was a comforting friend—
she had impeccable taste, which manifested -->