That absence I notice, your calm words, escapes definition though I talk myself through it all day. I know down that road you are, this patchwork world with its sky of biblical proportions. No book gets close, for all their experience. Or that absence after we absent ourselves from a cause of confusion, conflict, or more dailiness, which is you and me. In that absence the road is a blissful reminder of elsewhere. The April sky is, just as well really, ours and everyone’s. Another city makes no claims on our person: we can be that presence and absence, ourselves.