There are worlds within worlds, patterns on walls, or just the old regional flim flam. You said I came from the north, but I understood mid-ness, in between. The old wars boiling in your blood amidst statues of Jefferson Davis. Please pause to see me. Please look again. We each papered and credentialed, symbols of stasis and flight. Please pause to see me. Beyond the simple narrative vectors reach out, poke through the skin. Who knew these old pains would find us. Out at the river, even the water has recycled itself. Yet, the old story. The silence of refusal. Underneath your smile. Behind closed doors.