In the latest issue:

In Quarantine

Erin Maglaque

Après Brexit

Ferdinand Mount

Short Cuts: Springtime for Donald

David Bromwich

Meetings with their Gods

Claire Hall

‘Generation Left’

William Davies

At the North Miami Museum: Alice Paalen Rahon

Mary Ann Caws

Buchan’s Banter

Christopher Tayler

‘American Dirt’

Christian Lorentzen

Fiction and the Age of Lies

Colin Burrow

In Lahore

Tariq Ali


James Lasdun

Rereading Bowen

Tessa Hadley

At the Corner House

Rosemary Hill

William Gibson

Thomas Jones

Poem: ‘Murph & Me’

August Kleinzahler

The Stud File

Kevin Brazil

John Boorman’s Quiet Ending

David Thomson

In Shanghai: The West Bund Museum

John-Paul Stonard

Diary: The Deborah Orr I Knew

Jenny Turner



Meanwhile in Costa Rica the volcano smokes
Toucans glide down to the banana plantation –
For the moment everything is relaxed.
It is snowing in Michigan, but I’m thinking
Of the newspaper story in September,
Two parrots building a nest on a silo
In Montcalm County – Guido points out
Alulu shadings above the coverts,
Assuming I’m a birder.
I like their beaks. Though am somewhat more
Interested in the volcano. Guido asks
For another malt liquor. He needs, he says
To return to San Francisco for surgery –
Turns out we know the same neighbourhood
And pubs. He talks of California girls.
This swirl of old habits and parks,
As in the feathering of dreams
Where everything’s altered but names –
The toucans are sometimes poisoned here

Guido touches the scar on his neck
Deb is kneeling, examining a beetle
The size of her fist. The birds darken
The horizon at dusk. In North Beach once,
Everything shifting beneath my boots,
I stepped from the curb at dusk into a turmoil of gulls


The susurration at night grows malicious
As it should – the marsh is now marinas –
In that mixed light, gulls standing on pilings,
Soft maples where the streets end,
Ducks gliding, fish nipping the surface.
The water moils. Everyone was once
Young and lonely as well, when hairstyles
Were different. Too many miles on him,
The woman remarks, in the soda fountain
Off the short deck above water, insects
Spinning the hanging bulbs. He’s not
That old, says her friend. My point exactly,
She replies

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