…or ask the mistakes to give the day texture.
December to seem like July. The sea to make room
and the room to be right here. Language to do more than fill time.
If you forget who you are there’s a desk in the afterlife
meant to retrieve you. Yet by some kind of error
(someone told me today), it’s been sent and is heavy,
it’s been lost on the earth.
I’m no more at home if I’m walking or swimming,
catching an airplane or riding trains backwards
like people of previous years.
This is what he looked like, you said to them,
handing over a photo.
This is how a car drives out of view.
Nothing—not even the nothing—gets written by us.
* * *
Readers are encouraged to submit 3–5 poems as a PDF to Wendy Xu for consideration at [email protected].