and now, at dusk, sauntering speechless through electric balms, amid billboards, shops, cars, their glass refracting the passing world, shards streaming, we each see the other, a brother, a sister, traipsing home, to different homes, where, with pleasure afoot, we prepare to join banality's channel and course merrily forward, progressing, until one evening, pacific, reposed, we might recall what came before, in infancy or adolescence, in gardens, streets, in which, rightly or wrongly, we fancy intimacy dwelt, its impression wrapped in a sensation that floats mysteriously to consciousness, rising, as if somehow deposited and restrained and released, yet we grasp neither how nor why, confounded by the shrouded mechanism that summons its outline, the dark workings of which we might seek but not find, fumbling and furrowing, to make memories of memory, remembrances of remembering, amassing illusions of history, in content without form, a wreckage for as long as one looks

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