Vanishing Point

At the end of the street before the turn, 
a glimpse of river: choppy with light,
singed with coal dust. I forget 

sometimes whether the barges crossing 
look smaller or larger as you speed up.
Perspective is what they call it: a way 

of looking at the world that's shaped by 
the length of time you can hold it in 
your gaze without faltering.

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