It may be that the past is another country; or a kind
of cloud-vessel shadow moving through the days.

It may be that a window is something to frantically
open, before the throat closes on itself from lack

of air. There’s another word for it, though– it means
lookout, crow’s nest, balcony, or ledge. And it may be

that a chair is only a chair and not a fortuitous
place to land, especially in the grips of vertigo.

Maybe a closed book collecting dust on a shelf isn’t
history— only a letter badly written to yourself

before you really traveled anywhere. Postcards came
in the mail with panoramas of unlined blue; bird

serifs, pebbled beaches. In time, you dared to pull
at the buttery flesh of a sea urchin with your teeth,

tipping its armored body to your lips— only the first
briny thimbleful that cracked open the passages to thirst.


In response to Via Negativa: Following orders.

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