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Eric Pankey |
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Film Still
after Douglas Gordan's 24 Hour Pyscho
As if on the surface of the moon,
Cold in light and shadow,
Time itself is outmoded
All glints, struck flints, mica flares
Like TV static, the fluorescent hum
Of the exit booth in long term parking,
Or at the turnpike's end, and if
The future seems permeated
With foreboding, imagine the landscape
Unfurling behind, a blurry
Rear-projection, without soundtrack,
Without the windshield wipers' tick,
Or the on-again, off-again rain,
Imagine the driver's eye
As dark water down a drain,
And the past seems a momentary
Misdeed, a modicum,
A mote washed away by a tear.
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© 2008 The Cortland Review |
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