Aeolian Harp Street

by Tim Gilmore, 6/18/2012

In all Riverside, it may be the hardest street to find, harder than Haldumar Terrace and Cook Street and Bourbon Alley.

The blue of the sky darkens behind the oak and the pine. Seasonal leaf fall buries everything. Every single season, leaf fall buries everything.

And as one barred owl swoops in the dark to the corner of Ingleside Avenue and Remington Street, in the burnt-out hull of an apartment building where no one has lived for two years, someone loudly either laughs or cries. It is impossible to tell which. The stranger who finds all the clues inherits all the windows.

Most of us never notice. Most of us never are noticed. Every time disappears forever, but all of us bear some relation to beauty. Wonder is the primary passion. Love follows.

Hand in hand, we must have passed the site where it happened many times without ever knowing. Now it’s come to this. Through all these years and through every ghost story I have loved you.

There is that

that is

the depths of this.

We have made our plans. The night is still as dream. Try to bottle the stillness of the deep night. Steward the hypnagogic hallucinations. The matter’s convened.

And tomorrow, we will get up with the first light and begin the mapping of all the fig trees in the neighborhood.