APORIA

by Paul Adler

 

 

The blurred cypress
has its own quiet math

as you speed divine
with the white tongue

of a cloud descending
to lick a strip mall.

Motion is a means 
to forget, so that each

fluorescent burst
of brush is erased,

so that all night cities
are replaced by brighter

versions of themselves.
A small benevolence,

like the song of a bird
just before it alights.

Look, the lake hurries
to erase our image.

 

 

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