“Where a thought might hear itself see.” ~ Susan Howe
Is it still there, the park with the circle swings and rusted see-saws, the slides whose curves made gravity seem denser, the stone elephants looking into the distance without seeing? Rowboats drift on the water, couples pass beneath the arms of willows. If you lean out over the wooden pier, the wind might bring the murmur of voices. Flakes of paint might come off in your hands from the railing, the way the rough bark of some trees has a soft underside— like an old language struggling to come back to life.