Lately, I've been walking through rooms searching for the variations of Bach or Mozart. I've heard them slide up walls and under furniture. Last October, I walked to the garden for potatoes. Small moonstruck voices singing in five rows. I couldn't get back to the house by myself. I've walked into mirrors and climbed out windows. There has been blood. Relatives want me to see a doctor. They're afraid I'll walk or fall from their lives. They don't understand. I tell them, "When I rise, I rise from intricate silences or rude conversations, from nightmares, from disheveled bedclothes to walk with other walkers, to even walk with the dead. I walk in a place where eyeless birds fly the boundaries, where the moon never escapes. I walk the night air inhaling mist, swallowing stars."