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When the Ship Disappeared from View

It fell from the edge of the world and on fishless shores of distant stars angels wept:  what had been contained was now endless.  Belief sailed through the body to an eternity of waiting, of circling, became a theory about ending where one began, a story in which you traveled west, your heart a slender memory of all the rooms in which it sang.  And in singing, it woke you to the mystery of nothing comes from nothing, to the distance between what happened and how it would be remembered.  What happened is the ratio of heat to skin to clouds tamping out the stars, a map cracking into a thousand autumn pieces, roads pouring forth the liquid slide of destiny.   But you remember looking into the southern stretch of the Milky Way, glimpsing beyond the pin-wheeling arm into a room gone dark.    A room in which the story has just been read and drifting among the remnants of stars and ships you find yourself at the edge of the world surprised by how little holds you back.  The soul like the moon passes in and out of form, of light.   Or not at all.   You read, the future stands fixed but we move in infinite space and the arrow arcs towards the sun.  When the story in which one returns became a story in which one doesn’t,  you went further, seeking the stormy tip of the jetty for you were the palm of the collective, its will outstretching your fingers.  Belief is the arc an object makes when force defies gravity.  It is the reason you left.  And keep leaving.  It is an equation expressed by division and progressively shorter distances.   This morning a ship nearing shore returned you to you, but only for a moment before passing through to the other side.

Posted 05/26/12
appeared in Fourteen Hills, Spring/Summer 2012
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