What mind could make
things happen here—on the plains
of Uruguay, boys with blades
tracing squares in the dirt, women
whose skin found mountains
to fade to? Myth, objects
gathered on roadsides:
a coin, a note in Persian, the idea
you lost on the way to Buenos Aires
ten thousand years ago.

Later I lied to myself—
these are illusions,
eyes seen through glass eyes.
But the cathedral exists, bright
and confusing, passages
weaving to no exit, opening
to all we’ve known and forgotten.
A fly’s wing flickers
on the edge of eternity
and we’ve no idea how to stop it.





BoonA native Ohioan, Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two Thirds North, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and Sunset Liminal.

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