Winter 1998 • Vol. XX No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1998 |

As Empty as a Church, I Believe I Am a Small Testament to the Failing Relationship between Space and Light

The progress, if any, could not be called spiritual. Those were days made entirely of dusk. Those were days that wasted themselves. So I would walk it there, a soul wanting to take a small mountainside for its body. The doors were thick, but I could hear them, quietly screaming about love. Walk, until I could see it: a light full of small holes, quivering as if leafed, but with no suffering inside it. Walk, until that small mountain would flicker inside me. But the day would go on, steadily aching in its own endless twilight, evenly humming the darkening light. Until finally, someone turned on the night's first noisy star. Then, someone lit another. They would warm themselves against that cold blue light. But I would wait, let the room deepen around me, let the children with their thick notebooks carry home the spiraling night. Until, it was moving in slow motion. Until, it was a dizzy gull, the word inland hanging from its beak like a thick black

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Conjure

By Robert Wrigley

The progress, if any, could not be called spiritual. Those were days made entirely of dusk. Those were days that wasted themselves. So I would walk it there, a soul […]

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