the years and years of my life, passing as if on a train, on a train. Into
winter darkness. The purpling gloam. Five hours from the airport in in my
father-in-law's backseat, sky and water silvering down. Winking sense of
land and sea and day into night. Leaving, escape, sharp and high into sun.
The brightness of movement, of going. In old times that did not seem old
it was like this—into the city as the sky, mouth weaving, and the train
gulped big. The conservatory glass dome wove between buildings, was woven,
a snake past the second-floor diners that served jewelers and closed at
two o'clock where I ate matzoh ball soup on lunch from my video art class.
That teacher in his white pants and empty hallways. Our rented cameras
coiled inside me, ingrown, as I ride out to teach people older now than I