She belongs to the late-afternoon, under first spring glows of Coastal Sunshine (the kind found on Floridean shores, only rarely glimpsed in the Jersey wasted, make-believe land.) I'd like to pin her to the dark and rainy first hours of a new year, but every inch of spite and decay I felt at that moment poisons that memory. So it goes. His memories, the good ones, are centered on the half-light of late summer, walking the streets under the indecisive haze of morning v. night (and every time I hear "Guero," I'm there.) Except for "Go It Alone." That song is mine.