the incandescence hurts your eyes.
You drift in toward the vaporous wharf.
You hear yourself: A bar. Somewhere dark, quiet.
The dog-still town outside turns white:
you're somewhere in the back of town,
outside the white-framed boarding house.
You hear a voice: Upstairs, Above. You scan the building's
white-washed sides. The clapboard planks
have dove-tailed ends. You rise up as by
light, or air, see them in their separate rooms,
sitting there, waiting for you. Your mother.
Your father. The lover that you never knew.
They seem so still. So self-absorbed.
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