Kirsteen MacLeod

  It’s you I think of, Cassiel, as I look down from the 25th floor in my white hotel bathrobe, feet resting on the window, listening to Casals, who has to be your brother-angel — fallen to earth with his cello.   Below, my city’s a reef: calcified light towers, red train tracks that undulate, white amoebas that pulse along the expressway to the dark water’s…