the ends of maps



all night the girders
pushed the branches out of their way,
building new windows
to line up with his body.
he heard the silent furnaces
at work in the undergrowth,
the solid notes
locking into place.
his mind went to the gulls
asleep on the roof.
wondered if they too
had felt the growth.
if they would wake
to find their wings
hungry for air, immense now,
too vast to fold.



every footfall on the carpet
was lost in the carpet,
sank far beneath the surface
as if it was the surface of a lake.
and every word was a bell,
a giant silver bell,
being struck once in the memory,
on the very edge of memory,
beyond which they could hear no sound.


beyond the flowers
placed on the table, beyond
the smell of oranges
left cautiously to dry,
beyond even
the curtains drawn
to keep light out
or darkness in,
past the sneaking
crook of twilight
and farther than even that,
hidden at the calmest end,
where no brochure would lead you,
nor any guide
show you the way.


words: Radu Dima, Bucharest
photo: Steve Wing, Florida (sand shadow)


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