An intensity he gave to the poems he read to himself—by way of his voice. We miss you and the way you’d say things. And “How did it go, again?” would we ask you, if you could listen. Now, forever locked in your internal maze as we watch from the outside your catatonic eyes follow the sunset into night. As you asked, “What do you want me to do?” upon the return from a dream. Well, just let it be. Leaving one dream for another. Satisfaction comes when the hands forming the words don’t have to try, and there is a great care seen in the act of letting go … the perceived will to write. Oh, Author Without A Name. Is it time to go to sleep or wake up? ¶ Quest to retrieve the long light become our selves at home. What more could you believe in? While your spirits from forever ago walk through the walls of today. And do not feel the warmth of the light on their skin. While noise and light and motion all go on at the same time, and they fall through the core of the earth. Poppins the little white dog of the house who ignores the metal fencing she can walk through and surveying the world immediately outside. The music going on through the windowed walls. The people inside thronging in communion. All of them happy-seeming, grateful for something or other, each one. The peril of being a human being alive. With time to risk and a heart to beat. A point to breach. But at least you can know. We were all standing at the turning point. All of us, in some way. Still are. Contending with principalities. And being alive. Hard to be one with the self is at all. The castle floating over the bridge was our destination. We could not know for sure how to make its towers out. They were often invisible in the daytime, but when the moon got involved—well, that was a different story. This dream or that saw my courtship with a divine lady go struggled between different campuses. Some of which were lost aloft broken cement streets and clean-cut sections of open waterpipe. And this and that were all their own stories. I can remember only but glances of. The reality untold is that all this is the story. You or I can see only but fragments of. When the castle floating over the bridge dragged itself down and the ghost of E and I watched from the verdant overlook as it crumbled the bridge to pieces as though it were made of toothpicks. Water the soluble paper shred inked with “guilt” dissolves in. Nothing of this life all the same, I don’t think. Huge plumes of metal beam linkages falling through the water. What does frost and forever say? Because comma set demanded I write the next line, I did so under the demand on sight. It was not a decision my body could’ve made for me. But who knows. When tomorrow’s afraid. This was all just the next grove getting widened out. And readied for the truth to make its way. I set out to find it, and now, I wonder: have I found anything? Did God curse me to be blind for making an idol of some other thing? This I wonder, too, as I let down my guard in the night, watching riverspray.