There are places farther than I can see. They hide in between the lines on maps and stand sentinel next to highways and sometimes interstates. I can see me there; the days would be counted in cast shadows across the yard. I could live in Ritzville in a faded painted bungalow that tumbles over dry grass and waits like a cat. There are places where sounds don't travel so much as they explode and scatter like dust particles near a window. I can see me there; I would teach my self to write letters again and send packages with things I make or bake or sing. The bursts of wind would pass by the windows and I would always think it was you coming up the long unpaved road. Could this part be in Pendleton? Or Baker City? The wind whips it's self in a frenzy there. These places have quiet yards. You come home to these yards when you get to the place when nights no longer promise you anything. What to do with silence? Bounce it off surfaces. Fold linen. Make soup. We've entered the age of ache and retraction. Of sweat and good will. Here comes the bar room memories and the scent of what we planted if we remember to plant anything.