On Summit now, the lights twinkle like the bugs we swatted. It is a street of dreaming, dispossessing, rearranging, like the boulevards–brimming with light or blazing with lilacs according to the season–arrange us all, push us toward the river toward the river or the bluffs where always this road must stop. and we a viewing is demanded of us, of clipping rivers, vitsa, earths motion, ever forward, ever forward, ever forward. and even in winter, the wind pushes time around, down these mighty gulleys that cap summit. the lives of gods and new babies and the recently fired and the rich and the medium are tossed across hills and valleys like dice in a game with no playing board. this summit. this old road. this memory keeper.