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To Try To Fall; I Used To Think You Were Beautiful by Glenn Ingersoll

To Try to Fall

I fell awake.

That mistake again!

All these holes to stumble into –

some of them the precise shape of the body –

you’d think they’d be easy to fall into,

lose yourself to the depths.

But what to do

when the hole won’t take you,

no matter how you shape yourself

to fit –

falling is free, isn’t it?

We are always falling.

In bodies falling toward bodies.

I used to try desperately

to fall in love.

I threw myself.

I never fell very far, I think,

but so often I thought something broke –

some fragile, essential, connective part.

The daily struggle to fall

imagines the catching arms

of the healer –

the dark in which he administers

his balm.

What fall is his season?

Which harbors the longest night?

I used to think you were beautiful

I used to think you were beautiful,

said the son to the moan

archly, his eyebrow cocked

over the orbit one opal

rotated through on its quest

to complete a true circuit

of vision, that goalless progress

toward the leer no barrier of scream

could shake or rattle, or, ultimately,

roll from a walk swept of leaf-shadow

and feather gust, a stride

certain as the tide that oysters

open for, chill and motherless,

the grit within lacquering toward

lusters never yet wiped

from the lingering eye’s wild

rise upon a heaven freckled already

with eternities a particle

leaps between, cuts through.


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