Late at night, New York City is that ghost or the embodiment of that ghostly ideal, that “East Coast of my mind.” As I read Whitman, the sound waves travel through the microphone and across the photographs in my head. Through my grandmother’s eyes. Through my aunt’s eyes. Through this country’s eyes. And back around to the obituary I read last week, the newspaper clipping that held my mother’s mother’s mother, Dora Riley Pletcher:

Mrs. Dora Riley, wife of Sylvester F. Pletcher, was born in Zanesville, Ohio, Nov. 26th 1870, and departed this life Sunday morning at 5:30, Nov. 18th, 1923, aged 52 years, 11 months and 22 days. She was the daughter of Albert and Frances Riley. On Jan. 11th, 1893 she was united in marriage to Sylvester F. Pletcher. To this union eight children were born. In early life she united with the Bible Christian Church of Roseville, Ohio. After her marriage she united with the United Brethren Church at Black Oak and remained a consistent member until her death. Sister Pletcher was a good and noble woman, a good wife and mother. She always was thoughtful for her husband and children. It was always a pleasure to visit at her home. She was a kind neighbor. During her last illness she enjoyed so much the song and prayer service, and she left unmistakable evidence that Christ was her Savior. On Sunday morning, Nov. 18th, she closed her eyes to all earthly scenes and she went to that house not made with hands.

The most rewarding aspect. In the tunnels, your image reflected. Shot to nowhere. Into forever. The most disgusting aspect. In the tunnels, your image reflected. Shot to nowhere. Into forever. It takes too much time to view anything fully. Only a select few obtain this luxury. Of seeing that, right now, there is not enough time. Slowly, slowly, slowly. I was walking too fast. The man in front of me on Prospect Avenue was put off by my pace. The attendant said, “No, you haven’t missed the last train. There will be another one.” And she laughed, without looking at me. At least someone was certain.

The certainty was intuitive though. You had to intuit that it was certain. And I was skeptical. Very very very skeptical. Dogwood. Redbud. Dogwood. And the cloggers dancing on my temples. And I, yodeling on Lexington Avenue at three in the morning. And some guy said to me, “You’re like me.” Yes, I thought, “I was taught the beauty of work. That work is beautiful.”

Being driven down the Blue Ridge Parkway as a child. A road that runs along the mountain’s spine. As if. As if the vehicle was on a track. The sensation of “falling from the car into the valley below like a rock.” But thinking that I would fly, prevail. Like Orville and Wilbur Wright.

This morning, Fred Flintstone. No, it was Barney Rubble. Barney told me about William Styron’s death. I said, “Barney, are you ok? You look like hell.” Then Barney left. And I shed a few tears in private. I had never even met the man, even though we had traced all over each other for years. Yes, at the end of the day, after last call, after the floor has been swept, poetry is closer to the word “literary” than almost any other word. You know this though. It seems like such a simple idea. The cherry tree in my grandparents’ backyard. The black and white television that was in the spare room. The fields of corn that ran as far as the eye could see. So simple.

I went fishing in the South River. I caught five fish. I bought a hat for the winter. It was hand-made out of recycled fabric. This is very good, danke schön.