Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Light Year

Light Year

When I talk about a place, I point,
gesture toward where I think it lives.
Back there, or out and to the left,
there’s no accounting for East or West
in my thumb or index finger, just
a feeling, a vague cloud of magnetic
energy that tugs at my hand.
Everything is close to everything,
relatively speaking. You can get
anywhere on our planet in under
a week. The world keeps collapsing
toward itself, like a sheet being folded
by two people, one on each end,
and folded again. We describe distance
in time: twenty minutes walking,
an hour with the traffic, a four hour
flight, a light year. We are used
to seeing our planet twirl in miniature,
docked on a desk. There is stillness
only when we drop to the ground,
pulling our legs in beneath us
like fingers clasping a palm
in order to become a fist.

4 comments

  1. ...so that we stop pointing? Even I, who am always being asked how I come up with this stuff, wonder how you come up with this stuff. It's brilliant.

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  2. C'est Ici!

    I'll be pointing the way all day today.

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  3. It seems uncanny to read this after experiencing yesterday's earthquake. A few pieces of artwork definitely dropped to the ground and alas are no more.

    Again today, a wonderful poem from beginning to end.

    Thank you for your kind comment at my blog about my reading voice.

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  4. too lovely for words...you know I think describing distance in time is an American trait...you are the best!

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