Mar 26, 2014
Share:
I drive an icy valley towards you, where the mountains
alone’re worth a thousand errors; where trees
shake slowly as if on film. Earth’s curtains have built
a frame for us that for once I can’t act myself
out of. I tried to write our bodies in a play; but I confused
our parts; and had to try to flee the stage
under the gold, torn walls of the ballroom.
When we dance I understand an orbit’s pull and circle.
Ours is a life worth losing; let’s unlace it
from its post and see what creature it becomes.
I fear our brains’ geology: their strike-slip faults;
their symmetry. But when driving
an island to see you, the roads open
the earth. And I want to know no other.
While we have you...
...we need your help. You might have noticed the absence of paywalls at Boston Review. We are committed to staying free for all our readers. Now we are going one step further to become completely ad-free. This means you will always be able to read us without roadblocks or barriers to entry. It also means that we count on you, our readers, for support. If you like what you read here, help us keep it free for everyone by making a donation. No amount is too small. You will be helping us cultivate a public sphere that honors pluralism of thought for a diverse and discerning public.
March 26, 2014
