this house is the one where I was young and where I turned through time … and this doorstep is the one crowded with the ghosts of boys and all varieties of kisses … and I am surrounded by the friendly fingered familiar places of the brief whirl in color and motion and words and actions … which has been my life … so I know instinctively, like the rat in the maze, that this door opens … this of all the doors … my feet know this is the door … my eyes know …
Me with bison house
