Orient Point

A white mouse scurries by, followed by a much smaller herdof wild mustangs. Long Island Sound chills. He races throughthe kitchen door with the frying pan of death. Smashes themouse. He looks upset. He says, Whenever you kill livingthings, it’s always difficult. This is how it starts. The lightsflicker on. Then the heat. Then the engine. On a broken-downtrain. On a bridge. Every inch counts. The car veers towardthe airport of its own accord. He’s pulled over by the cops fordriving slowly. He tells them he was trying to avoid the ani-mals on the road. The cops inform him he is on the GoldenGate Bridge toward Sausalito. I wake on the couch. The door-bell rings. The older female houseguest and I grab the door-knob at the same time. I acquiesce and sit on the couch withmy back to the door. I hear the door open. Voices throughmy back. Water drips from the ceiling. Everyone is upstairs. Icall up but no answer. Another flood, someone yells. Wordsso cold from jowls full of ice. They come downstairs to a poolof water. The mantel warped like a fish bowl castle. A screenover the credenza displays a close-up of small fishing villages.I wake on the couch. This is how it starts. With coffee andmy reflection in the sugar dispenser. Then in its silver lineson chrome. Then in zones of bushwhack toward Talkeetna,Alaska. Logs, lathed. Early May. Log cabin building school.Log Man. Lumber Jack. An upright man. Posts, not slabs,elevated. Wood-burning stoves. I try to return to sleep. Ina perilous couch. Gastric juices set in motion. Cells stainedand killed. The texture of a blood-drained balloon. Throughan aperture of the upper teeth. If you can reach out, you canhold on. It starts again with reflections in the teaspoon. Inthe sugar dispenser. It continues with the mouse hopping on three legs. The team of mustangs behind it kicking up floordust. In Orient Point, he says, I’ll build you a bookcase outof driftwood from the unwavering Sound. It was the season.A reckless expenditure of rare resources. Regardless of howtrapped you feel behind the door. We can buy squash fromCooper in the morning. At night we can see the fire roaring.This is when Old Coop slays the pigs and fowl. Outside thewindow everything is a matte finish. It’s a two-mile jog, ashort jaunt really. You must practice for Talkeetna. This iswhat you need. You will come to Talkeetna, but you’ll haveto toughen up first. You may have to kill some animals. Youcan’t buy steak at the corner store. You will stay in Talkeetnatill the first sign of snow, and then you’ll have a small windowof choices — above the physical plane, eighty-four move-ments of thought, psychedelic excursions, running the samemovie, making a cavity of your chest, through an apertureof the upper teeth, a kilometer of golden light — for onceit snows you can never leave. It starts in Orient Point, theSound. Long Island duck. Fresh berry pies. You can’t staindriftwood. This is the point. It continues in Talkeetna. Ahundred flights of stairs at night. Aurora Borealis. Glaciersof snow. Grizzlies. Potluck socials. Emergency-responseclasses. Town Hall meetings. The occasional tourist on skis.I can see you horning them with every curse. It started atthe Christmas house. A kilometer of golden light betweenbirth and fatal illness. A symptom of structures. The bedwas made for me the way it always has been, though I’dnever slept there. Crisp white sheets, one end folded downlike the beginning folds over a paper plane production. If Ican reach out, I can hold on. In the city of desire there is asmall table by a small window inside a small café. Desire ishigh-polished mahogany. Delicate white curtains hangingabove the table. Outside, everywhere one sees monuments...