February 13, 2006


Somewhere along Redwood Road, you turn off--
I forget if it is left or right--and there is Christina's house.
We are getting out now, or maybe getting in,
an old, polished white Cutlass--I forget the year.

This image comes back to me, I am too young
to remember it with clarity or depth.
It is a picture suffused by that year's spring light,
and, almost blinded by this light,
which passes through the spotless windshield
like water into a vase,
fire into wood,
I hold the flat, empty picture,
like all restless, powerful words,
in my heart. Because there is no choice
in being born.

Unravelling this mystery--
unthinkable suffering, confusion,
and joy beyond words or memory--
I curl up into bed, many years away,
finding it impossible to recollect
how I got here.


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