Dialogue I 2009 Houses drowned in the sea, I sought my things for ages, then dressed in another’s clothes. Where did you build your own home, or are you a vagabond, do you have your own gun? Those caresses and warm nights don’t fade, but taken for granted makes them all the more like pain with each day spent wandering and further away. Hunting buffalo from atop rusty beams, the water in streams seems to become sweeter each month, and I’ve gotten used to leaves. The math of shipbuilding eludes me, trees still lean near the waters of thin shores, and death poems slip through my lips, but who’s to listen?