A flurry of images that seem half remembered, half imagined, half something else entirely. Reminds me of a longing for being there, or being around that which is happening within yourself even though you recognize you aren't there anymore, but just in those things that are half remembered: like the smell of stale cigarettes in a hotel room.

Good, good,

S. I. Mette

Love the alliterations which, as so many other touches, lubricates the flow of the poem. This transformed me to another place, time and dimension where touch, hearing and thought mingle and exchange, become arbitrary components of a greater whole, the sum of a beautiful string of experiences hanging suspended in space by the stimuli of words and the puppeteer pulling the strings of creation.

"Longview, where the rain

pelted us like so many bars,

like the regalia;"

The keening rain patter equalized with the sharp sound of symphony-that's what turns me on in this mostly. A single experience but made somehow indecently universal.