Egizio slowly climbing two flights of steep wooden stairs, to bring us a thick smooth vegetable soup he had made.

(His small dog missing him even for these few minutes)

Egizio bringing us pasta in the special Bolognese sauce my wife loves.  I hear him coming–his footsteps and the hollow beat of his cane.

And calling a few days later for his quality Tupperware.

Egizio at his vast horizontal closet, with clothes hanging dense as a Mozart score, pulling out Tumi jackets and giving them to me.  Giving me, with great excitement, velvet jackets, beautiful but far too flamboyant for me.  I feel them draped over my forearm.

What amazing and disturbing wooden masks covered one wall.  As his guests sip scotch or good wine from Trader Joe’s, we’re hit by jagged waves of mana.  We’re in a polytheistic temple, if we choose to be.

The artwork of friends on tables and shelves—many penises in fiberglass or ceramic.  (After his death, those dicks would fetch money)

On a visit to NY in winter, I’ve left my hat in a taxi.  He gives me a much better one, along with a scarf.

He gives my wife a scarf.  One of many, some functional, some dazzling.

This one is both–gray with a pattern of leaves.  The leaves are inset with silver ziggurat zigzags and tiny pearl-like studs.  She wore it tonight and it seemed alive.  The leaves and the glitter together seemed alive.