Horizon line

“…how small/ the sight of ships” ~ D. Bonta

Consider the stones etched with lines, laid
in repeating patterns, leading to and away

from the courthouse square. There are plaques
set into the brick to tell you when exactly

the buildings were erected: 1872, 1912. How old
is any of us, really? Bone rubs against bone

with the sound of one mahjongg tile clicking
against another— That sound the pain of old

things: the sound the machine makes, breaking
down at the joints. After the riddle is solved

and the egg is cracked by chance, the Sphinx
throws herself from her shelf of rock

and dies: oh the terror of touching the seam
where two worlds meet or overlap, of drifting

forever in the foggy space between. No map
in sight, only signs pointing out the ferry.

Count out the coins for this crossing with stiffened
hands; but what bird sings there with liquid voice?


In response to Via Negativa: Those that from a long way off look like flies.

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