The Visit

Photo by Max Reif.
Photo by Max Reif.

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

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