A distance of 3600 miles can drown a lot of shouts. It take planes so long to get there — there where my evening ritual, slid away, will find new life in this salmon gloaming; here where contrails sky-write a language whose figures call to mind time when we first noticed our tongues had a second relation to our minds; here where they wish bridges into bows so a million Kodakchrome memories can say, "I was there."
"I was there," I'll say from there, "stalking behind hot oven walls of anomie, a rip-off victim in the making, nursing my prematurely eldritch bones and wishing small joys before the grave comes to claim me." And with nothing before me but the road and the will to make it I'll depart. The dust'll bear no witness to my steps, or to my tears.
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