Memory triangulates, trapping me in the din of this roadside scene.

A conjuring sheet, a map of men who wait behind every word I’ve ever read.

Who knows who plants the seeds that grow into this long-coming scheme?

It’s the inner lock now open for them to see, for them to take, for them to remake in their image of me.

I thought at least that I could trust in myself. I thought I knew where to stand. But now I think with a limp and I walk down the path toward the vacant lands.