Blue street, bell-decked Clydesdales, quarter to ten and daylight wan through the rain. Blue street where M did her laundry. Crept up today and over the pass and again in reverse—back on my traces, done what I could— Forgetting most of what we see, we're all falling now, falling east, down the dark flank of the solstice. Ten is at night. If I can make myself mine this— mine, how I— One final cup before the road, crept up today, the whole building empty except for clocks that showed the wrong time and a package of Q-tips. M, why did you? Forget the horses and tourists, this is my last night here, I'm clean, I've done what I could. M for I. The river turns 90 degrees in its stern walled channel. Quarter to ten. How I must have seemed to her on the twentieth floor— a pittance, a child's idea of travel. Going-to-the-Sun is the name of the road.
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