[The sun-warmed beach crust breaks]Boyer Rickel
The sun-warmed beach crust breaks and the sudden metallic damp of sand stuns my fingertips. How else could we come to love the skins of things—frogs, a sidewalk, the sky— except by our own hurts? Celan underlined the dark half, the despairing half of a sentence on Holderlin; he left the hopeful half unmarked. His gesture freighted like photos with the history to come: the longhaired high school friend astride his Harley, whose van hurtled off a bridge when he was 20. At the city pool, 1960, the pressure of the photographer—my father’s shadow—reaching across the water to me.
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