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.


  1. 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.

  2. C'est Ici!

    I'll be pointing the way all day today.

  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.

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


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