I go back to walk on privileged streets to find the poem that I lost. I see pillars here and ivy there and potholes in between. There are stacks of places, people spaces. I think I’d go crazy up there. There are towers and gables and shingles at odd angles all doll-houses blown up to life-size. And the people like husks float around in the dusk with all their life sucked out. They go to little places and work in little sp...