{tampa. january 2012.} “a thousand doors ago when i was a lonely kid in a big house with four garages and it was summer as long as i could remember, i lay on the lawn at night, clover wrinkling over me, the wise stars bedding over me, my mother’s window a funnel of yellow heat running out, my father’s window, half shut, an eye where sleepers pass, and the boards of the house were smooth and white as wax and probably a million leaves sailed on their strange stalks as the crickets ticked together and i, in my brand new body, which was not a woman’s yet, told the stars my questions and thought god could really see the heat and the painted light,…