In this town, I’ve only walked small circles. I’m thinking I should have been born with a plan. And traversed in a grid. Never repeating, always adding up my steps in town geometry. Skyland as my ultimate destination. Earth would end at the antique store, the pizza parlor where we were the only white people and you bought me a quarter-machine ring, the piano store, and Dairy Queen. All those tornadoes would come spinning down the boulevard and go right off into space.

But no, I’ve been there before and before. We watched the red ends of cars then climbed the catwalk. The cars flattened out and sped up. I might ask you to kiss me downtown while the wind is blowing, while night is fine. But never on Skyland Blvd. The heady feeling as cars come swishing underneath the catwalk is already too much.