What, when I return,
as I did today, to the place
where I was raised, am I—
knowing that I will never find it—
looking for?
And why,
as I move through charged space, marking
all that has changed, holding
out for something
recognizable,
am I reporting all I see
and all I miss
to you,
invisible beside me?
Nosing among new-named streets,
blank buildings whose histories confront me
with aimless urgency
old spots among the smear of the new:
the restaurant where I used to work,
the house of Nicky’s parents
with his name still on the mailbox,
the spot where Sandy,
on the day before we all left for college,
knowing she was the one in the world
I most wanted to love
leaned in at my window
and made an offering of goodbye, and
the place I last saw Kathy
before she died.
I know that here is where the text of whatever it is
I go back to read
must be read. But I don’t know why,
before I set my eyes on how little
of all I remember remains,
before I gave over the questions again,
I was already writing these words,
to you.
