Issue 210, Fall 2014
It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished
by its density. A mob of spirits enacts freedom of assembly
under a Carmelite aegis. Friendly, to a point; but no
rhythm. The fight goes out of us, high beams
make it worse. Our dissent voiced simply in the way
we’re put together, in claims to an ill-defined
sixth sense—clairvoyance, gaydar, sensitivity to the dead
and their unending list of grievances—
staring into the infinite regression of our inabilities.
Everything to the right resembles everything
to the left, GPS prompts ring hollow though we were so close
once. Unimaginable speed behaving like stillness.
A confused dream the land entertains. Lay down