Has maps in his head
of the intersections, the alleys,the landmarks of his sociology,
    without irony
    nor the tragic sense,
has indices in his memory
of faces, doorways, pastimes,
birds, running water, vacant lots,
    without terminology
    nor philosophical bent,
in his room under the eaves
is fragmentary, shadowful,
rumorous, legendary.

*
How could it perplex him
that there are Baptists and Methodists?
Compared to what?
That the gazebo on the library lawn,
the houses, the walks flake and crumble?
Time passes so relentlessly?
Skin is so fragile?
Compared to what?

*
Wakes any day acquisitive
for the norms, the disorders,
the politics of his available world,
    unaware of the dark recesses of mind,
    the discontents, the ferocities,
senses a revelation in the silences,
the privacies of other homes, other lives,
their peculiarities, their failings,
    unaware of the affects of history,
    the vicissitudes of civilization,
experiences a portent in empty places,
a moonlit distance of snow,
a conversation in another room.