I live in the past years trodden down to memory, images scattered amongst feelings that left off somewhere I never got to finish. In the rain on the cars and the shoes on the pavement, In music that spells out my bones like a familiar expletive. Where the church bells hang silent, suspended in their lonely towers, lost beacons of reverence, casting down their ancient shadows. I live where the people shuffle like insects scampering to higher ground, fleeing the flooding waterways that cut through our valley. I live In the old springs, I lived when the paint was new, when people still talked out on the sidewalks and the ginkgo trees reeked of cat urine when you passed directly under them, and the soup kitchen stayed open until after sunset. I live in the trampled white blossoms and cigarette butts. In the movie rental store, and the back alley that connected to the Irish bar. The grease of the fryers and the stench of open sewer grates flushed with rainwater. City blood is high in iron, the metals we inherit by breath and step Cast anchors of the past that hold heavy to the heart.