126 The Meadow like flesh in movie dresses long ago. “Excuse me. I’m busy.” “I don’t want to intrude.” Wish I could reel it back. But this plays live and direct. “I’m regular here. The movie house. Just wondered why I not seen you.” “I been places.” Her fingers fold on the bottle cap. “Excuse me. This atmosphere scrapes my throat.” Exhale and see my breath’s gritty cloud. “You got left behind?” Again, her skin takes anger. “I don’t know what you talking about.” “When it happened. This drying-out.” “Scarcity gives people edge.” “So you weren’t abandoned here? Too weak? Too localized?” “Excuse me.” Can’t return to the picture house, at least until she gets called for a drunk and moves some other place. It’s not that in suburbs the light’s any kinder—I’m just better on streets close to home. Wherever I sleep is home. Some folks get hung up on location. I think that misunderstands the basics, the quiet likeness that binds all possible worlds. I have no tribe I feel for. Got the bus here, might take the bus someplace else. I wear a beard now, don’t read books, and I sense—by how blossom falls—another dry springtime. At home I scoop sand from the porch. Sand burns my fingers. Scrub it down till my skin peels raw and clean. Desert people do this, use sand to wash. Nomads stirred by fading stars, uneasy in dreams of water.
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