When Lindbergh wingèd past the crowd, Arthur Loomis stood facing south, into the trolley line, rolling, rising away from the river.

From his threshold dim memory
dreams this city's passing.
Its silence and its scheme,
whose signature is read beyond reflection.

--In that wavering light--
those streets seem to penetrate time both ways--from Broadway to the river.

He blesses these things first--
All words foreign to a child's tongue,
simple keys found in the cellar dark--
the artifacts of the connoisseur and collector.
Intersections of our common resources.

All stories by which an entry is attempted.