I notice a dead spot when I meet a face known so intensely years ago. The windmill at St. Pete’s, the crossroads and grid, god-damned chickadees massed like avengers over the graveyard path. Back and to the right, the junkyard, sweet enough for me in ’98 or so, my outdoor office there.
By dead I mean I mean looked-out (maybe lucked out)--something so burned into perception that I shy away from more of it.
Idea attributed to F.G. Lorca, who pinned
a version to his door:
book a sheet of curling
for those who had never curled,
never split the house,
Lorca showed up in time to join
old-timers hockey in Leroy
Tuesday and Friday mornings in Leroy
10:00 for an hour and half
because the ice here’s no good.
Everybody behaves himself?
Oh, you betcha.
We all know each other.
Where I walked, I'd walked before.