Issue > Poetry
The World in Reverse Is Still the World
Hands trace breath: magnificent
winter plume, an oil refinery at dusk,
a forest fire before any houses go missing.
Then all the houses go missing. Night
arrives yet the earth doesn't cease being
broken into, one energy converted into
another, made useful for us. Still children,
in a sense, we shape the cold in our mouths
into ovals & blow. Magnificent. My hands hold
& hold & hold onto the emptiness between them.