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Poem	I wish I could, like some, forget, and never anguish, nor regret, dismissive, free to roam the street, no matter how the visions meet. Remembrance is a neighborhood where convicts live with great and good, its roads of red, uneven brick, whose surfaces – both rough and slick – spread out into a patchwork plan. Sometimes at night I hear a man vault past the fence, and cross the yard, my door chain down, and me off-guard. He curses, threatens, pounds the door. I’m wedged between the couch and floor, ungainly, barefoot, limp and pinned, scared of the dark, without a friend, with only one clear thought, that I – like him, like you – don’t want to die.
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