Wherever My Dead Go When I'm Not Remembering Them. Not gone, not here, a fern trace in the stone of living tissue it can somehow flourish from; or the dried up channel and the absent current; or maybe it's like a subway passenger on a platform in a dim lit station late at night between trains, after the trains have stopped - ahead only the faintest rumbling of the last one disappearing, and behind the dark you're looking down for any hint of light-where is it? why won't it come? you wandering now along the yellow line, restless, not knowing who you are, or even where until you see it, there it is, approaching, and you hurry to the spot you don't know how you know is marked for you, and you alone, as the door slides open into your being once again my father, my sister or brother, as if nothing's changed, as if to be known were the destination. Where are we going? What are we doing here? you don't ask, you don't notice the blur of stations we're racing past, the others out there watching in the dim light, baffled, who for a moment thought the train was theirs.Reel to Reel, Alan Shapiro's twelfth collection of poetry, moves outward from the intimate spaces of family and romantic life to embrace not only the human realm of politics and culture but also the natural world, and even the outer spaces of the cosmos itself. In language richly nuanced yet accessible, these poems inhabit and explore fundamental questions of existence, such as time, mortality, consciousness, and matter. Shapiro brings his humor, imaginative intensity, characteristic syntactical energy, and generous heart to bear on life's ultimate mysteries. In ways few poets have done, he writes from a premodern, primal sense of wonder about our postmodern world.
