these calm nights, A reminder of every bitter cold wind, they cut my bones — memory its own kind of negative space wandering as I do a landscape, this map etched on the inside of my eyes, on the inside back of my skull, a series of spaces that have been other spaces before and others after: this wharf, the river here and about,  the mountains — as I recall them — my father’s hands, the cornfields of my childhood, endless two lane blacktop, an eternal summer loop where I still walk

making rounds here in the land between the bridges