The thing you stared at most in your days will determine how you are remembered: images are potent, distilled beverages, that get the memory drunk, and imbue your hue to those who take their shots right after yours I see a rusty staircase, intense sun and its hazes a few out of place plants, the light light light corner light to make a wood building into a fancy something or other rest, rant, eat, chant, where the iced tea gets low, a song comes from above and reminds me of an odd night, the first viewing of that film about that guy who was trying to get away from society and mostly his family while I was wondering what the translation for red was and recovering from a party in which there was only one thing on a simpler twenty something mind here without you, excepting the memory and those promises Looking back out that glass pane there is a chimney below and among the trees and I am reminded of Vincent and wondering once again if language has enough color to paint the world on the other side of the transparent gutter, taking the rain that rarely comes back to the rose bush while I see leaves and remember the first poems I wrote with the candle lit and wonder, does it all come across, what do you hear when there are no voices except the ones in my ear