The bus is late getting in to my home town.
I walk up the hill by the barracks,
Cutting through alleyways that jump at me.
They come bursting out of the walls
Just a minute before I began to feel them
Getting ready to arch and push. Here is the house.
Nobody who knows me knows where I am now.
I have a pocketful of gravel to wake my aunt sleeping
Behind the third dark window counting left over the bakery.
Here I will not be asked to repeat the story.
Between her and me and the hour of my birth
A broad stony stream is sliding
That changes its course with the floods of every spring.