An astronaut told a class of Navajo children, "If you study science,
someday you too can go to the moon." One student spoke up: "My
grandfather's been there several times." The class nodded wisely.

Late one night in another place I drove from the city to a sacred
mountain, parked and entered a field so bright I could see each
pebble echoing my steps on the moonlit path.

Stretching out in the shadow of a forest, I dreamed of entering the
house where I was born.

Strolling through the lobby that wedded its twin sides, as I began
bing the stairs leading to the fourth floor apartment, suddenly
I knew that now I live on
memory and non-empirical knowledge, all
of which require a reinvestigation of the division between inner and
many floors, behind many doors.

And we are spectators, always, everywhere, / looking at everything
and never from!
/ It floods us. We arrange it. It decays / We arrange
it again, and we decay.