Who could ever forget? Riding all night on that half-empty Greyhound, waking in the alone notime darkness of Nebraska waking to the smell of gristmill corn, being filled, mistaking, in half-sleep, the scent of being in love again…
Traveling other roads, 1972 I find my child gets half-fares As, gingerly, my wife and I walk him In the silver-green grass of still another wind-churned state.
or, picking out Salinger’s Nine Stories in the terminal in Chicago, devouring the book understanding little but riding it home anyway. That’s what it was like, being seventeen in 1965.
The passions do not change, stones sweeping chaos into maelstrom, ever-pressing eddies: To know To find love To be free