Notes from Milwaukee

I sweep pale honey boards that sag in places, that don't lie flush--and feel reverberations of peculiar, buoyant interest. I have made this before: a living room under a shaggy juniper roof, a tiny hog house turned hide-out, a room in a barn full of dreams.

Gray skirts of afternoon trail wind chimes, curled leaves, and the rhythmic wooden thump of cars above the pedestrian walkway. Beneath the bridge--strange world of sand, tire swings, and signage placing the risk entirely on those at play. Coffee shop festooned with colored lights-- men at the bar discuss anime and Lord of the Rings. A man with tattoos on his forehead and soft black eyes offers to buy me a drink. Lured by a glimpse of lake, I get lost and unlost and come again to a place almost too new to be home.