The playwright sits in his father's home surrounded by memories and small chaos.
There are honeysuckle entangled with morning glories and poison ivy.
The terrain outside is etched in his memory, a map of ground moving under his feet.
Silence in the woods, where the trees move without the wind helping.
He writes to express the angels and demons crying to be heard.
In his plays the conventional becomes ephemeral, dark, extraordinary.
In a small town we find Mrs. Quark endlessly serving soup.
I define myself by Tracy.
In the writer's town I know there must be books of postcards with lovely paintings on them.
There must be numerous amazing details I cannot fathom.
There are stars glowing in the nether-regions of space.
And he's sad, which makes me sad too.
There are many cats in place around the room.
They take their marks and dance.
I would dance too, like a ballet dancer.
And there is one Flame Point.