"The eye stretches to the horizon
and then must continue up.
Anything past the horizon is invisible,
it can only be imagined.
You want to see the future but you only see the sky.
Fluffy clouds.
Look-- white fluffy clouds.
Looking back is easy for a while and then looking back it's
murky.
There's the road, and there is the story
of where the road goes, which is only a story,
and then there is more road, the roar
of the freeway, the roar of the crowd, the roar of the city
sheening across the city.
There should be a place.
At the rest stop, in the restaurant, the overpass,
the water's edge--
there should be a place where we are more than just narrative.
He was not dead yet, not exactly--
parts of him were dead already, certainly
other parts were only waiting for something
to happen, something grand, but it isn't always about me,
he keeps saying though he's talking
about the only heart he knows.
Boys on the bed, strange sheets, the way
a phone rings in the other room like that,
the way it has a brain ringing.
Inside his head a little music, inside his head a little pop.
What he remembers doesn't make any sense.
What he remembers has nothing to do with us or does it?
All this circling around inside the darkened rooms,
inside those dreams of ours that never get used.
He was not dead yet, still though--
it isn't about him.
Can't articulate what it is he feels or needs,
doesn't know which parts to move or which
ones stack on top of all the other ones,
but still we wanted the antidote,
the answer to the mystery, the problem solved.
All of us trying to find our way in again,
trying to bash in his head to get to the candy.
The small dark rooms inside our heads still dark, still small.
Sheets over chairs, bulbs blown, the windows now open, now shut.
He could build a city.
Has a certain capacity.
There's a niche in his chest where heart would fit perfectly
and he thinks if he could just maneuver one into place--
well then, game over."