Blackbirds engorging themselves on the dried seed in the empty field. The questioning goes deeper. You cannot rewrite your history. You can heal, but you can't do it over again. And then the way they quench their thirst in the momentarily available puddles, the head bowed, then pulled up and cocked to the side, feathers fluffed and shaken, then fleeing as suddenly as they arrived, all moving black against the fading sky in concert. That was the tangible part of his memory. Built up inside the body as if it were part of the cellular structure, the very pull and stretch of the muscle, as if he had absorbed his whole life's knowledge and the feeling for this arid stretch of land through the actual pores of his skin. He had become another. The latent voices; family ghosts speaking and instructing whether he willed it or not across the vast emptiness of time. How does one avoid the pain of a generation ago, or two, or three, when one cannot even know it, cannot know how the inheritance sticks, hidden somewhere deep in the cells - the self which stretches beyond self.
In the moment of history an unfathomable birth
Act One: The dwellers in the cave watch the play of shadows on the opposite wall
Act Three: He turns around
In the moment of person
The posture was a tremolo
Then an obstruction