A forgivable sliver, gladly given,
of the baffling freedom;

the summer stretched out lengthwise,
an embarrassment of riches.

Everything counted, accounted for,
the nothingness of knowing,

like all the rest, left waiting like bad
weather in a different state,

years off. Years, like cross-sections,
a shelf of unread books,

years square as maps, here
a line like cartoon lightning points

the way around some obstacle between
us as where we all were bound—

to be and breathe the same
air that fills everything empty

to see as in old chrome reflected
the color of the wind

that we were there, together
that there was nothing broken yet inside

that the season stayed on and, now,
that when this is over

if we let the line out all
the way it may make itself a curve

and if we make the right left turns
we may find ourselves at home again.

Matt Taylor is a writer of fiction and poetry. A native of Los Angeles, he is currently a student in the MFA program at Chapman University in Orange, CA.

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