-third prologue-

I was the traveler

Now the confessor.

I was the young one

Who knew everything;

The same one who barely knew
The formula for tying his shoes.

I was dream-drunk when everyone

Around me was drunk with the same dreams.

But they moved on.

I don't know the reasons for why I didn't.

I'm left speaking to the places of my time
To anyone who listens.

There are the lives of others

And the deaths of some of them;

Of things recalled about their activities
And my own activities with them.
The poets call these things
The journey through life.
It's the simplicity paves
The way to the journey.

The distance between the tenements
Are measured from window to window;
Measured by the running
Count of the steps from the entries
To the upper floors.

I'll start at the beginning

Working outward to where everything is

And by glancing out the window
I see the kids running, 

Crossing the street

Between the park and the gas station.

The schoolgirl friends
Of my teenage sister are brushing
The lengths of their hair on overnight stays
Lighting the atmosphere.
When they see me through the mirrors
They continue as if I wasn't there.
But it's only now that I know I was.


See how the soft
Fedoras rest on their hooks,
Closing the books on the long day's sales.


Listen to the swish of the sponges
Across the table oilcloths
Releasing the pungent
Scent of petroleum.


Resting my face on the still-damp surfaces
I opened the windows
To the scent of petroleum.

I'll mention the warmth
Of the one true dance
And the placement of her secret locations.

That’s what has to be recognized.

It’s so simple.
It soaks like water and like water
It’s what keeps it living.