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Matthew Langley |
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From Flora & Fauna
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For
its journey into the
mirror an image must
be the motion of
an afterlife, a wire in
the rose. On the out- side
of it is what the
audience cries out for,
calls it poetry and
games the dead. You
call it god and are satisfied.
Knowing a trick has
been played. * Beneath
the night
and
its threads the
peace
of vaults, of
barely
horizons.
Here,
safe as you are,
lean lean.
And
the air will move
over
you as if moving
were
nothing.
Is
this extraordinary?
Yes
and no. There
is not an owl, a
moon, a slickly ripe fruit,
or a light to
interpret. Only the
single image, half-real, untrue,
kept from
us in the edge there without history
or geometry. We
tell it the
most we can say about a
thing is that either it stays
or it cannot
be
loved; our hearts
merely chemical
and afraid of
ghosts.
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