“Steve Abee is a gas station”—Dolores is the tree-lined road I’ve tried to remember (Cooper Road, Sebastopol, 1963), Ben is the eroded banks of the dry wash we quickly cleared looking for the trail to Henninger Flats in the oaks and brush, Marina is the years driving California to Chico to revisit Ray after he faded, rising stiffly, surprised when we’d drive up to find him on the porch or sidewalk of First Street, downtown San Jose, Lisa is the traffic snarled on the freeway to the Bay Bridge at rush hour, Umeko is a moment of bright muskeg, while Ryan steers the boat or throws things onto the boat, Umeko and Dolores are showers of cold rain hurtling through the tall cedars and firs, while Ray is lines from Vallejo’s Black Stone on a White Stone that come at me or go out across the Tonto Plateau in the Grand Canyon, Citlali is a steak dinner driving through Hudson, WY toward the river in the Upper Green River Valley, WY where the wind catches the Landcruiser door and flings it open into Umeko’s mouth, knocking her backwards—into the summer grass in the endless wind—(certainly Doctor James Lew is not the big red dog whose muscles once rippled and curled like the Monterey cypresses at the mouth of Soberanes canyon, we knew that Naomi is not the moment when Paul gets into the passenger seat, clearly it was not me (my name) at the moment in some Brooklyn morning who awaited Citlali’s call or who was the restless buffeting wind off the water of the winter’s night)—

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