Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

Under the Sun

You move the chair aside.   You touch yourself, accordingly.   Your wrist. A piece of driftwood. Iron   where there was nothing.   Meaning it.               ❦ ❦ ❦   Blunt positings along the edge of need withheld.               ❦ ❦ ❦   We're not the wind.               ❦ ❦ ❦   No inhuman mercy ever—or none left to simplify.   Try to survive.               ❦ ❦ ❦   No trail, no beach.   Uneven suck-back of clear spillage on a tray of stones.   The resolution fell apart. The crop was in—that nest of wire.     The gathered genius bled face down into the sand.                 ❦ ❦ ❦   No figurehead looked out to where the view explodes.     Relabeled. Wrapped in flags     to make one thing— song and its opposite under the flares.     To make on

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What We See Under the Stars

By Peter Sacks

You move the chair aside.   You touch yourself, accordingly.   Your wrist. A piece of driftwood. Iron   where there was nothing.   Meaning it.               ❦ ❦ ❦ […]

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