If we are lucky there will be time imagine how the dead might admire this halo of cities but for now we must follow the directions one hand leaves for the other. As in conversation sparks fly upward so allegory takes wing against wreckage of night, the swan song of a sun in its solitude. In whose interest do they labor, we wonder, these silhouettes of desire cast back at us by the orphaned event? & when no man remembers his mother or father what can measure our loss--techne as telos? At the vanishing point where the mullah who fed his master's gold bird gives way to the Sand Reckoner sifting grains of light lip service is paid to the names once strange to us--problems of navigation that leave us all in the dark.