Frederick Pollack
			Title Poem I know it happened, and await a déjà vu to clarify when and where I descended from trees through scrub to grass, a surprisingly broad valley. Was the sky mottled and cool, or hot and stagnant? Did the fence I recall belong to a bureau or firm? It's unclear - as are the road and parking lot that must have been before me, and the appointment, probably tenuous, I brooded on. In those days, at the end of a day or drive or thought, there was often a girl, who might be possible.  Or a severe, maturing theory.  Or the troubled counsel of friends. Of all this, all that's left is that slice of meadow and a white, corrugated shed with a sealed grey door among untrampled weeds, and above the door a yellow, humming, flyblown, wired light. - I don't know why this image bothers me. Is it the waste of power, or power? Some randomness, a redundancy in daylight? The wait for night, when effort is less futile? It isn't even clearly a negative image. And I don't know where I'm going. I live the way I remember: discrete points, unconvinced interpretations. Yet I move, and rarely seem to stumble in my own vast shadow.