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elsewhere :: christian wiman

by on April 1, 2015

All he remembers is a whisper
high in the trees,
a breeze out of nowhere
he walks with, for there was no one
where he was.
There are lulls
and shiftings, eddies
in the air, inflections
so slight he thinks,
as he sways and changes,
he chooses them. Home
is momentary, a way
of seeing, a sweet lingering
in a cloud before it drifts
beyond the form he’s found
for it, a brief
impalpable life breathed
into clothes on a line.
Restless, attuned
to wayward fluencies,
he craves the space
of fields, learns to lose
himself amid the haphazard
songs of abandoned
houses, empty wells
and the hollows of bones,
quickening, assenting
to the distances
into which he is
borne. The world blurs
around him. Landscapes alter
as he enters them: revisions,
erosions, clouds
flowing like smoke over.

From → poems

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