William Logan | The Nation

William Logan

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William Logan


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My mother, a brunette, hurried in her cloth coat

through postwar Sundays, which fell

When you spread your hand over the globe,
across mountain range, island, intuitive seas,
nothing disappeared, just as my first touch,
fingering down the rocky spine of your back,

ended in the confusion of whether to return
or continue. Furthest from home, the traveler
turns home, no matter where he turns.
But it was you I turned to, when I turned.