Why should I stray from this neighborhood, where, a few blocks away, Bill Wordsworth
and his sister Dorothy, who spends her days embroidering her journals, live. Coleridge
frequently drops by to read his poems, and smoke some weed. While a crusty old poet
who calls himself Homer paces in front of the local coffeehouse mumbling myths, as if
bear(ing) witness to these most ancient and mysterious forms of linguistic expression.

About half a mile away, there's a small pond, in which two old frogs croak.
On its shore, Basho sits in a hut built next to his namesake tree, watching
vintage samurai movies on cable TV. Mornings, as we sip bowls of green
tea, Venus rises from the pond's film of green algae.