Record sleeves warped and covered in mold. Train train ferry to the small hotel. How to step away from your life and seamlessly reenter. Stay up all night before the flight. What your body does and what you will. I think walking into a cloud is a name for love. You had been at the bottom of a fjord for days. Feeling diminished by what you share with strangers. What I meant by domestic was native to the region. I sighted the path across the meadow. I was in college when this novel was published & therefore recognize its world as one I wanted but could not imagine. A small wooden sign. Scenes of the movie set in years when I knew those subcultures. As though photography had the witchy powers anthropologists claimed. The sadness of discovering adult life was not significantly different from what preceded it. Had walking become a way of seeing or a form of speech. Writing from the coast of her loneliness within marriage. Who is and is not an intellectual. How to lock up your brilliance in heterosexual commitment. I mean really it’s all body body body around here. Squinting at my reflection to check skirt length. I was on the couch before the sun came up reading their statistics. How we had traveled through time and returned weeks later. The man’s elbow resting on my arm & gut. All the brilliant men and their women at a dinner party in Paris decades ago. What does research look like. The tearing sound when something pries loose. I wake up early and write this poem without coffee or tea.
M C Hyland
1 February 2016