I went back to Eugene, Oregon – a college town – only after twenty-four years dissected, passed.
Stood outside the room wherein I once dwelt, time rich as skunks, lodestone sounding Honshu or Arendal,
Fit four quarter centuries back, to propellers and graves,
Forward, to Queen Marie, naves whistling in Columbian hills, by then they ride gravity waves.
I trailed toward room 218, next to the incense of mouldered room 217, a populous choice,
Angels of plywood tattling, left a fecund stone slammed in the security gate,
Could ascend the staircase to where I could wait.
Clove cigarettes, dead professors, seething chains of oaks,
Sticky rice on spectral plates.
Jonathan Falk 10-25-14
Collage/ photo by me. Photos from 1988.