He came out, then in and out of the public pool, as the azure minute hand on his grey Swatch tugged the shadow overhead. He shared a bedroom, like tinned mackerel, with his brother and awoke to the screech-screech of Jays. On a Sunday, Dad called upward, “Pancakes are ready,” especially populated with navy berries bleeding burgundy. He hastily plucked the royally bright Pilot from a handful of pens in third-period History.

One teenage girl after another accosted his pale sapphires, “Your eyes, I want them.” The indigo hoodie belonged to K. A heron by the lake came in close to christen him Full of Sorrow. The regal Oxford paperback print of Emerson set his mind afire with aphorisms in his shark-accented second-floor campus apartment. Denim was a perfect costume choice for street shows, abandoned and never to be reclaimed.

He pounced into the magical atmospheric Apatite above Alex Knob Trail tree line like a video game hero virgin. How high can he go, clinging to the icy, angled Lobuche? His bliss was not there but in the electric-lit backstage of Variety Theater Essen. He woke into violent oppressive captivity, the dream of Munich dwindling, but like the Leverett stupa forget-me-nots not forgotten. His food benefits equaled 1200 ounces of berries, 144 shy of enough. The mug in Cambridge that sang by the heat of cornflower Assam cracked and has been replaced by a gifted, painted, Talavera blue.