Impossible to keep a landscape in your head.Try it: All you'll get is pieces—the sunemerging from behind the mountain ridge,smoke coming off the ice on a thawing lake.It's as if our heads can't containanything that vast: It just leaks out.You can be inside a house and still feelthe rooms you're not in—kitchen belowand attic above, bedroom down the hall—but you can't hold onto the sensationof being both inside the wallsand outside looking at themat the same time.Where do we go with that?Where does that lead us?There are spaces for livingand spaces for forgetting.Sometimes they're the same.We walk back and forth without a twitch,popping a beer, gabbing on the phone,with only the occasional stubbed toe.The keyhole sees nothing.Has it always been blind?It's like a dream where a voice whispersOpen your mouth and you do,but it's not your mouth anymorebecause now you're all throat,a tunnel skewered by air.So you rewind; and this timewhen you open wide, you're standingoutside your skin, looking downat the damage, leaning in close . . .about to dive back into your body—and then you wake up.Someone once said: There are no answers,just interesting questions.(Which way down? asked the dove,dropping the olive branch.)If you think about it,everything's inside something else;everything's an envelopeinside a package in a case—and pain knows a way into every crevice.