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ISSUE:  Spring 2012

Pervasive ghostly
whatnot of the
felt invisible
streaming back
and forth of mass-
less particles that
anything with mass
reels out of itself
to reel in whatever’s
smaller (how, by
what means, pulling
with what, or
pressing?) along
crossing and criss-
crossing lines of
force in fields of
force that lessen
never quite
to nothing over
infinite distances,
at all times, in all
directions where
there’s no direction
and even light is
sucked like a body
into the densest
hole of it, or curls,
photon by photon,
at its horizon like
a flock of starlings—
and in the dream
vision of its utter
opposite—which is
not grace—you are
the object only,
the merely acted
on, subjected
to, dumb thing
at rest, in nothing,
nowhere, im-
moveable, or moved
so continuously
forward at the
same speed it’s
the same as rest—
it is the nightmare
of the absence of
all sense of this
way or that or
fast or slow, which
suddenly you
wake from, falling
without time
enough to reach
for anything
between what’s rushing
from you and
what’s rushing up.


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