I show him how easy it is
to become a lens, a cyber-visitor
swooping up Overdale Avenue
like a steady bird or a boy on a bike.
We pass the row where an incendiary
fell, blew glass across the front room,
but his door isn’t there, replaced by flats
before I was born.
Here’s a plane tree, lower branches
out of reach, and somewhere on the bark
a set of initials carved with a penknife
in summer of forty-three.