The Clastic castle, memory number four, room the first where my mother has passed; my mother, the stained glass window within her garden, framed within the wooden fence, the vines are a continuous moment emanating from her sun bathed ways, the old women as she walks upon the plucking violin as father tends to the lawn. The flowers she has given, their never ending inflorescence, the weather which has yet to fall upon us like an endless parading mask- she parades above in the morning from below where I have been living, where the furnace heavily breaths, where father approaches then leaves. We laid there often grinning at the ceiling watching as the mango skins dried. Do you remember as I the ceiling white and crumbling? We are running out of rooms to store all the frozen moments- when it snows we will have more. The town is small and tiny and the alleys come to a short end where the stairs meet the floor and the stairs again begin-  if I could only see the steps on Christmas morning the way I once saw the evergreens. She leaves now, leans in a passive way like a rudderless ship, somnolently upon the death of soil. In the second room there was a closet which many a night I spent mourning the approach of the unforeseeable way she came in the morning, the distance, the ember valleys from afar where her voice is calling. Outside the men are talking of the fallen timber. I am sure of the forgotten art, the galleries of the faithless, the history of a small fortune raised, spent but what is marvelous any longer? I thought it was her and her broken piano voice so I tickle the ivory atop the plastic floor, my wooden leg and I. In the valley he has a cabin and a Dictaphone, he smokes three packs a day, visits the farm often in his withered blue rolls Royce. Albania, it is you I am thinking of  like the crumbled paper below the heel of an Italian wedding, the invitation of your sister tan and pulling the clouds upon her, the mora that she speaks in, the grisette! but no she is not French, bubbles, no it is just the kid, the jar is not large enough for his tiny thoughts. It is venerable the way the roof sits above the children, they talk of such wonderful things. From above the sanatorium, the man, the concocted honey, the burrowing way he lives within the universe of tiny holes he has created out of the need to tell his story, do you see the way he has become his story? Silly to think the water would settle us, the wind, the woman in black, the man, the king, turn the page over and sweep her beneath the rug.  The playground, the park, the fence, what are they if not the semblance of a ceaseless desire to be young again? In the closet where the champagne calls, I have died a hundred tiny deaths in the eyes of another. If one life were enough, one life, I would stand tall each morning on the burnt out fire of the night before, rather, let us light the coals and begin the dance of joyful sorrow, to relive again the undying night when the ship arrived in the harbor and the war had begun, and I in my steel jaguar rolling somewhere in the green mansions of the Carolina’s. August, like an eloquent womb, in her belly I hear September breathing. She is course, foul, her breath is the crooning organ of time, stuck and bled, the annals of history have been living in the open meadow of her giving ways, of a child without god. In a world without the encompassing, enveloping hand, I wonder if things would have been better, produced more honey. The birch trees have fallen, the redwood softly peels, at a time when we are losing more of what we cherish. The cherry’s, the plums, the American dream unraveling within the drought of our dispirited hearts. The moth calls from within the chrysalis. We are alive at the very beginning and the beginning has just begun.