A big heap of things we don’t know anything about, over there. That neighborhood. The no-way streets getting off the ground, on time or off time. They did not take away his license and so he drove, until he didn’t. The preacher made a puzzle to keep things on time or off time. Pictures of children of children with names that he did not give them. A bucket of agates in the basement, waiting to be polished. Things we don’t know anything about have come in through the window. The faded stain on the carpet forms an old bird, waiting to fly again. He has entered the chamber of the iris, taken its delicate pulse. A street defined by flowers that die on time or off time. Memory caught in its elliptical groove, making love to itself. A bucket of agates in the basement, waiting to be polished.