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Mirror's edge.

Someone pushes us aside to get a better view. This is known as entrapment, the threat of what happens if you don't take precautions. A lie stuck in the throat, like compost festering in an abandoned garden. If you sleep all day, without making excuses, you can still cram an hour with words and enter the world victorious on a storm of hailstones. You can picture yourself on the upper deck of a bus in London or in the world's oldest cemetery, stalking the graves, or on an island in Greece, twisting the straps of your sandals over your bare legs and ankles. The soul is no longer confined to the boundaries of the body, but reveals itself in every gesture. A child lifts her mitten from the snow and brushes it off with her naked fingers. Hold back what you want to say for fear you said it already: I think we spent a night together back in '69, don't you know? This photograph is the only proof I own that we were ever part of the same landscape, a thread hooked in the needle's eye stitching our lives together, calcified and cold.

Lewis Warsh is the author of several books of poems, including Dreaming as One, Blue Heaven, and Information from the Surface of Venus, as well as two novels, Agnes and Sally and A Free Man. He is the publisher of United Artists Books and editor of The World (the literary magazine of The Poetry Project).
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Author:Warsh, Lewis
Publication:The American Poetry Review
Date:Sep 1, 1993
Words:249
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