there?" And, as I was presented to my father and yanked by my collar into the house, I longed for that ... feeling again, the feeling that I was all-alone, that I could make my own decisions, that I was entirely ... for about five seconds I felt free. Or when I rode my first motorcycle down the alley behind my house, ...

were my own, that I had access to all of these ways of looking by means of what I saw. I sat in the ... interest or complica­ tion; the sheer variety moved me. Sometimes I would dream my face at night, my ... features ardent, vivid. My eyes. My mouth. I would wake up smiling in the morn­ ing. Memory became my ...

A cemetery near my house hides a stand of long leaf and spruce. Sly young girl, I sneak out of school, go ... cry my name, and enter the rutty field. I am lost in frost fog, the dead brass of bean waste, dry wind ... fills my ear, my feet grow hard, cold, heavy, they rise, fall, rise on chalky furrows, jabbed by sharp, ...

Smirk at me, then pummel her mother, who was telling my wife Abstractions are rooted in Reality always, ... thundering, "I never wanted kids!" while my two- Year-old with her fist beat Her tray and ... wailed, who'd interrupted my lecture On developing one's style, while her mother sat ...