broken open

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The Wave
Matt Rasmussen
He saw it everywhere.
The inevitable folding of a wave,

the patient flood of lava
traveling toward him.

He saw birds die in flight,
felt a leaf release itself in his stomach.

We become rock, he thought.
The sun, somewhere, is always rising

and setting. The earth bubbles,
driving a volcanic neck

smoking from the ocean.
No island is an island,

he said. There is no new land,
just the same body broken open.

Photo by John Westrock on Unsplash

747

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747
Matt Rasmussen
The man who
drew the first

map was able
to see through

the eye
of a bird.

Fields speckled
with snow

are covered
in clouds

like dark faces
veiled twice.

I have told
you too much,

forgive us both.
O sun,

O stainless fuselage,
weave us

between the veils
before we darken

and dip into
the twinkling net.

Each small town
a blemish

on the night’s skin,
each city

a tumor of light.

Photo by Hudson Hintze on Unsplash