The lights of small towns swallowed by the fog of the railroad
cutting the sound of three lives now preserved in the fog and streetlight
and the dust of nets are absorbed into the legacies by which avenues are named
myths are made of elm street houses with the shoes hanging from wires outdoors
the wild outdoors should not be fear to look at or danger to meet

in likeness, in family, in an attempt to find the connection between what no longer exists and yourself

the ways in which one leaves a place and the way its ghosts become part of you
the transparency of some histories
and the telephone of your ghost stories
station wagons and strip malls
the summer night before the fall
the burning leaves
the pavement, all
clamor for you to lay it to rest.