The dark peoples with things: for keys, coins, pencils and pens our pockets grieve. No street lights or signs, no liquor stores or bars, only a lighter for a flashlight, and the same-faced trees, similar-armed stones and crooked bushes staring back at me. There is no path in the woods for a boy from the city. I would have set fire to get off this wilderness but Palomar is no El Camino in an empty lot, the plastic dripping from the dash and the paint bubbling like a toad's throat. If mountains were old pieces of furniture, I would have lit the fabric and danced. If mountains were abandoned crack houses, I would have opened their meanings with flame, if that would have let the wind and trees lead my eyes or shown me the moon's tiptoe on the moss--as you effect my hand, as we walk into the side of a Sunday night.