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Time Expanding the Air Forcibly

by Sam Ross

I woke up in the white-hot middle of a summer
night. I saw the future fall apart,
but forgot it quickly and fell back to sleep.
Reality reasserted itself, a book’s beginning.
In January, we ran to the Cloisters where
elevated views make the city a bed sheet
spread out tight and clean, hospital corners,
the colors pale and amiable though sudden:
yellow on blue. I showed you a picture I took
that day using the camera that leaks light
in a way that makes me want to cry,
makes me want to move to Mount Fuji and paint
my life onto 8×10 transparencies.
About the picture, you said that’s how it felt,
but not how it looked.
How could that be?
I held the cold aperture-ring with my fingers
and pressed the shutter gently enough,
trusting to the chemicals on cold film
and the tenets of sympathetic magic.
I heard the lock, click, and whisper. I knew.
Later, the bartender asked us what we liked
and mapped our afternoon from there with
drinks with names like Salt and Ash, The Heights,
The Horizon Like A Train on Fire.


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{ 1 comment… read it below or add one }

Rose July 9, 2013 at 8:47 am

Beautiful poem!

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