Long ago, I lost it, the black camisole with a logo of Devils Tower stamped in silver. Still it shimmers in memory, like a lost constellation. The logo was thin as a lichen, flaky. I saw little resemblance to the landform that gave rise to it. Why does it loom large? Perhaps because of the gossamer light it continues to cast for me? Memory acts like a radio tower, broadcasting signals only I can (fitfully) hear: a triangulated tale— who I wanted to be, who I was really, whom I might still become. So, maybe, if I just stand here, a little longer, near up-surging evidence— vanished lava and the Sundance Sea— I will unscramble. I will understand.
