The Dream of Writing

One day you are able to go back there.
You are able to see into all of their houses,
Into all of their lives,
As easily as someone’s face on the sidewalk.

You see where the plywood patches are,
And the shrines their mothers kept.
You stay long enough to hear them speak
The familiar cadences of the neighbor’s names;
Even long enough to say such things
In your own inward tongue.

And find you know them now
All the way through
Like a god
When you look in their eyes.