after Julio Cortázar It's silly to think fourteen years ago I turned thirty. How I made it that far I'll never know. In this city of hills, if there was a hill I was over it. Then. (In queer years, years are more than.) Soon it will be fifteen since the day I turned thirty. It's so remote. I didn't think I'd make it to fourteen years ago. Fear lives in the chest like results. You say my gray, it makes me look extinguished; you make me cringe. I haven't cracked the spines of certain paperbacks, or learned a sense of direction, even with a slick device. But the spleen doesn't ask twice, and soon it will be fifteen years since I turned thirty. Which may not sound like a lot. Which sounds like the hinge of a better life: It is, and it is not. Copyright © 2017 Randall Mann. Used with permission of the author. |
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