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What is this strange new Force

above us they call sky?

All ambient and azure,

a periphery aquatic.  My anatomy answers

in yeses and capillary applause.

See those flights of motion,

something like song and heartbeat

cloaked in down.

And what makes contact with the morning?

The mere weight of cotton and calcium

moors me so.  Disconnect me

from my tea mug, my news radio.

I too want escape from

broom bristles on kitchen floor,

from chafe.  I want to levitate

above the white crunch turned slush of

Wednesday’s snow and surface beyond

the pale blue body of the bowl

and look back and proclaim,

We should have floated more when we had the chance.


"Away" is a chapbook-in-the-round.  It is designed to be read starting at any point and coming full circle back to the beginning.  Each poem takes its central line from a line in the poem preceding it.  If time is non-linear, why shouldn't literature be as well?

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