s t r e e t, c i t y, s t a t e, z i p
R O B E R T M I L T N E R
The age of displacement is dawning. Borders disintegrate; families
crack, spill, drain away; even the most interconnected feel isolated,
indifferent. Attracted to the light reflected from a glassine package, the
child releases his hold on his mother's hand, becomes adrift, drifting,
caught in the instantaneous current of the crowd and is swept away.
The authorities are summoned, a search commences, a van full of
reporters arrives, the camera's lights turned on the empty space. Yet
where has the child gone? Whose shadow dashes from shrub to shrub
like that, a border breached under a new moon? Who is moving under
a pile of blankets and newspapers in the doorway down the alley
there, as the city wakens to another day of gray skies and brisk winds?
Whose voice do you hear as you fall into the canyons of sleep, the
voice which implores, I want to go home, go home?