I stand and look about me.
         Now everything is all around me.

         I see exactly where I am.

         I stand and face the north, where the city
         lies before me.
         I face the east to see the sea repeatedly stand and bow.
         I look farther east to the last wild night
         a woman had me in her arms,
         hear that foreign city call me back to her.

         I look to the south, that road we rolled along,
         the road to my sister.
         Our mystery lost to history.

         I sit and look closer.
         The sunlight burns on the painting.
         The walls are fading.
         This place, so airy and bright,
         remains weighted with the fresh ghosts
         of men before me, two men
         sequentially growing up, growing sick,
         here in this room.
         Two men in different times,
         passing through this door
         and staying, moving into this house.
         Dying here in this room.
         Lying down right here in this bed.

         From where they are now, my here is

         I stand again, look west.

         The impossible trip back across Pennsylvania.
         An aged couple waiting. I can picture them arm in arm.
         Every gesture heroic.
         They can see everything.

         We all look farther west and I
         confess my arrangements.
         They wave me off as the plane
         poses as a question and takes off.

         In the airplane the world below me turns
         into the sky.
         Still everything is all around me.
         This constant up-and-over of travel
         stays with me as I go, along with
         the silent sleepy weightlessness
         of waking up at home.

         I do not move through the world filling voids.

         The world shifts itself around me.
         The plants on the window sills
         stand majestic in their own wild order.
         The water rushes down the pipes.
         I stand and watch the curtains put their shadows
         on the windows.
         I look in the mirror there and turn.

             The wind picks up and
             laughs running down the street
             dodging traffic and
             gasping in the cold.
             I remember
             we were greedy stuffing
             our pockets full of colorful money.
             I balanced a book
             in my hand.
             I too take off running,
             dodge the neighbors in their places
             and dispense with neighborly ways,
             my friends
             from open spaces
             to not explain
             my project’s aim.
             Even as I hurry past the stores and races
             busses break the crosswalks
             and I run with dogs
             and children to play.
             I rip my torn philosophy
             further through its middle,
             deposit it in the bank.
             Poor and wild, I
             stoop to pray and praise.
             All this preparation is like
             a dream, and I turn
             waking and running and spilling over.
             The wind keeps up
             and races me
             through wildernesses.
             It’s fun to laugh at
             the wonder and disarray left in our wake,
             the patterns burned into
             our tracks. Don’t we feel alive when
             the others follow?
             They wonder
             where we’re
             off to—
             to find the other end of the unspooling thread.

         <      >