Fragment • Prosopopoeia (December 1998)

In my salad days I lived in the Green Mountains of Vermont, in a drafty clapboard farmhouse heated by a single wood-burning stove, and in those days I played guitar with several iterations of an improvisational rock band, the Farm, and worked as a greenhouse hand, apple picker, night watchman, window washer, Christmas tree cutter, canvasser. Part of me lingers still in that peaceable northern kingdom, a place that still nightly haunts my dreams, a place that, in those dreams at least, I still call home.