The Columbia Review Spring 2020

Page 48

the columbia review

VIEWPOINT Peter Myers

I wake up, box or chamber reactive, trying to do the continuous, andso or the green trail, will it let me crust over I wonder, will it let me be a tree, eyes for roots and nerves for branches, the wind’s speech continuous, still unclear to me, mouth-sounds without mouths and rusted, the crust of what isn’t there, I wake up, this room doesn’t have enough edges, space leaks so what, the so what flower the so what field, from the bed I turn toward the missing edge to align myself with the site where the lines must converge they do, there aren’t guarantees, I wake up, I watch myself enter and exit the store on the store’s cameras, day’s perfect, the sun is an orange activity, I walk toward the doors they slide open I step out into the parking lot, andso, something’s off, limit’s atrophied, the asphalt has too many edges, if sunlight won’t stop continuing, I wake up, it’s morning, it’s evening, hours won’t, it’s over, the grid’s alive but edgeless, I wake up andso to find what I’m in, am I back in the bedroom, do I restart motion through the andso, the andso valley the andso field, my brain is a sharp project, I wake up, another edge fails, the horizon won’t be terminal, it’s a smile lapseless, it speaks with a quiver mouth, I don’t know if I can hear it, can I, name yourself, okay, name the I okay, I unlimiter, I andsoer, thus will I have come to be known as the one who has scratched knowledge out of the earth, I wake up, I was awake already, the ground is a mouth that doesn’t open, lines won’t converge and they aren’t mine, I wake up andso I andso I andso I andso I andso,

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