Summer 2000 • Vol. XXII No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 2000 |

Every Drift

"Bad" in these matters is never the right word,  is it? Here I can speak freely and at a smoother  clip, clipping the least from my former position to preserve every drift  and drift. Proleptic, thrown back, thrown out— lurched—I felt ahead more than saw, thought ahead, if these can be called feelings, didn't you? It looked as though  you did. Things put abroad like a tablecloth in check:  castings and tailings, strippings and failings,  fallings-off. What's more rapid than passage? It was a pretty night: the tree  was lit, skaters took the ice, pretzels smoked,  cars stopped at green lights. But we were elsewhere—  Bermuda, I think it was—or you were, and our moods trafficked in their separate regions onward.

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