Now I’ve created
this city again
from its latency
among my maps
of memory.
Roads here lead to old
places inside, comfortable
furrows like the ones etched
on grey-matter surfaces
in photos of brains.
I ride these roads of memory,
sweet grooves that long ago
finally led me away,
flung to the east,
then to the west, spun
in a centrifuge of time;
led away from the child
first impressioned by the carnival
of lights down on Easton near
the Furniture Store; flickering
phantoms on the TV screen
in our old, dark living room;
Daddy’s beloved mansmell
and shiny, bald head.
I open memory’s drawer
to find the storms
that raged here once
have blown themselves out,
old volcanoes quiet now,
grown over with green.
Past and present make love
in a wholly aesthetic universe
with the added feature
of a living pulse.
I live a loop-around, like
a metaphysical Cessna pilot
flying curlicues in
the time-space continuum.
Raising my cup
of this heady blend,
looking out the picture-window
of time, I drink
to such elegant
simplicity.
