I wake with the weight of youth and regret. The air is sticky with the force of prosody. What is even the point of poetry or drawing out the lines? Are the strings in tune? I can not seem to hold the speed – steady as she goes. The trace minerals point to the inclusion of spectacle. Worlds within worlds carved and empty so that every scrap needs to be eaten. What was it O’Hara said about food and poetry about style and swagger about the city that chases me? What was my intention of starting this jaunt? We are greeted most morning by birds bickering as dreams start to unravel. The road is still there and I am still there and the inconsistencies of intimacy are all we have left. You take the high road and I take the low road and somehow, somewhere in this room or the next the history of this place or poem becomes manifest. The tide seems to ebb, taking with it feel part of the world. We are left with stretches of reference points and other anchors to cast.