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Laura Manuelidis

  • Poetry April 11, 2002


    Perhaps time is our invention
    To make things seem to move
    Like the uncovering tail of the blue jay
    As it lights its feet on the wet
    Trembling wood.

    Perhaps the seasons are really not
    More than a single space with walls inside, disconnected
    While fall and winter, and spring
    Which we always anticipate, are only
    Expansions of our own longings.

    Perhaps there is only the now
    Neither age nor youth, not even the vertigo of memories stilettoed
    Except wounded into this present second
    Shorter than the birth of a cell, or the nest dropped
    With the sun and the rain always out together.

    This center is absolute, it needs no endlessness
    For heaven or hell. Or for creation, our own illusion of ourselves.
    The minor variations we unfold are all the same
    Inherently permutating at once
    Repeating one design. Obscure. Lit at the edges of our time.

    Laura Manuelidis