The spasm of falling down the stairs ten years ago at a party is upon us. Everyone knows: The careen of spring is a leafy lattice pattern, developing doily of a year, a year that ends as it began, in branches. Every year it’s harder to hear the heart-hurt robin song and the geese grow ever more confused by the snow- sun-snow cycle of things. When was the last time you went to a party and fell down the stairs drunk and feeling everything but injured? Hanging sun-catchers on a continuum, segmenting off end to end to end, the season asks again what you’d like to drink. What quaff? What suckle? You are occupied by the pattern of light, a lingering lace on the landscape. Stare and stare until the story reveals itself. Once when you were young and out past your bedtime you lay down in wet grass at the top of the highest hill and looked up at more stars than you’d ever seen and considered the farthest edge of ocean visible to the eye and how it simply curves downward and wraps around the world and what keeps it there and not flowing up to the stars is simply gravity and how this was it, the very same thing holding you to the hill and wasn’t that grand? And you’ve never considered gravity once until this very moment and it’s still as grand as ever. But that’s a lie. You’ve considered gravity every single day.
Trina Burke Read Bio Author Discusses Poems
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