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This is a story about Herman Melville's search for his childhood house.
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After several days' ride, returning home to Manhattan . . .
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. . . lost in the city, in time, in life . . .
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But where now his house?
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There is only one way back.
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. . . yes . . . the in to the back . . .
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chair:
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the strangulation of triangulation
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This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps.*
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she blows
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...........................................................gatherest –
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Hearkening to these voices, East and West, by early sun rise, and by fall of eve . . .
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And now, to navigate his meditations . . .
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Ishmael's sleep would not come.
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"I am a woodcutter."
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Unfastening to . . .
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. . . begin the hunt . . .
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in order to remember
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with O for a Muse of Fire to ascend
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. . . lacuna . . .
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the lacunae of Herman's night
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. . . lacuna . . .
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but there he blows
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Cortlandt Street, red portal
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for beautiful things that don’t come back
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Call me Ishmael.