Poetry

“In the Book of the Disappearing Book” – John Gallagher

Itโ€™s a spring flowered dress that was her effacement.

On a train, and because of what windows do sometimes.

Her face is floating above the landscape

unaware.

I used to think that I was reporting my life to someone.

I was a radio.

I used to think things happening was unfolding.

The trees are blooming all through her

and thereโ€™s no one to tell.

And the discipline of roads.

The icy discipline of to and from.

In the air of nothing, I used to think

I was understanding distance.

Green God, in your language of silences, tell me.

(Courtesy ofย LIT)

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