ReTurn

You have no passage, no fare, no map.  The thread you laid (long years ago) is disintergrating.  If you were to describe the landmarks you would invariably confuse them, their names, the order. And so, the directions you give are impractical--fanciful landscapes, the reconstructed facades of a crumbling architecture--but not easily dismissed.  (Beyond:  dark hallways, stairwells of silenced cement and tile.)  The water-damaged blue prints are bleached from drying in the sun.  Back then, there were faces that were married with places; both had names.  In those days of easy association, this was all quite comprehensible, all quite clear.  But now the familiar is fading; the known is  now dissembling, the pieces of proofs (photographic, mathematical) strewn like summer clothing beside secret swimming holes or chasing your nakedness (and mine) into these beds of careless passion with nameless, speechless lovers and their surrogates.

We trust too easily the confident chronicles of dishonest men, of women with agendas well disguised by cool linen and the blue of night.  This is the fault of memory (…and politics).  The illusion of some control cannot be sustained.  They have begun to rename the streets.  Even so, eventually no one knows (or cares) who chose to call this or that byway by this specific name.  Our lives are only snapshots, the quick flash of phosphorous  in the copper coated pan.